It's All Your Fault

  For John

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: May God and Everyone Else Forgive Me

  Two: Oh No

  Three: Who I Am

  Four: Aunt Ecstasy

  Five: A Girl Made of Sin

  Six: Heller’s Rise

  Seven: Tentpole

  Eight: Here It Comes

  Nine: The Highway to Heller

  Ten: The Heller Hilton

  Eleven: Two Girls on a Rooftop

  Twelve: Who Are These People???

  Thirteen: I Am Not Going to Have Sex with Mills Stanwood!!! Shut Up!!!

  Fourteen: Brooklyn Is Just Hollywood with Plaid Flannel Shirts

  Fifteen: I Don’t Know What I’m Doing!

  Sixteen: A Morning Person

  Seventeen: No More Farting!!!

  Eighteen: Since When Is My Name Camden?

  Nineteen: Angel Warriors Attack!!!

  Twenty: Entering the Arena

  Twenty-One: A Dastroid in Times Square

  Twenty-Two: Kill Me Now

  Twenty-Three: A Really Long Day

  Twenty-Four: Sophie

  Twenty-Five: Sophie?

  Twenty-Six: Bonnie and Clyde and Heller and Caitlin and Sophie

  Twenty-Seven: Don’t Even Think about It!

  Twenty-Eight: Way Beyond over the Edge

  Twenty-Nine: Something That Could What?

  Thirty: The Quarry

  Thirty-One: The Chain

  Thirty-Two: Guilty of Everything

  Thirty-Three: Free at Last

  Thirty-Four: Reputation Rehab

  Thirty-Five: Premiere

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I am a good Christian girl and I am so ashamed.

  Up until forty-eight hours ago I had never tasted alcohol, kissed a boy, worn anything sleeveless or sung a song in public at the top of my lungs using suggestive and inappropriate lyrics. I had never kidnapped anyone or held up a convenience store at gunpoint or stolen a convertible. I don’t even have a driver’s license.

  In a very few minutes I am going to have to leave this jail cell and try to explain everything to my parents, my eight brothers and sisters, Reverend Benswelder, all of the lawyers everyone’s hired, the police, the mayor of Parsippany, New Jersey, and all of those journalists and their camera crews plus all of those people from those things on the Internet that I have never been allowed to read or follow or click on or whatever those procedures are called.

  I have no idea what I’m going to say.

  It’s happening. I can feel my chest getting tighter and my hands starting to clench and soon I won’t be able to breathe because I’m having a panic attack. I was diagnosed with a severe anxiety disorder when I was eight years old and couldn’t go on escalators because I knew I would fall and the escalator would chew me up. I’ve had therapy to try and control the attacks through medication and deep breathing and behavioral modification but right now, unless I list the names of my brothers and sisters in order, three times, all of them will die. Carter Corinne Caleb Callum Carl Castor Calico Catherine. Carter Corinne Caleb Callum Carl Castor Calico Catherine. Carter Corinne Callum Caleb … NO NO NO that was wrong and I have to start again only now I have to repeat the names six times because I have to protect everyone and I know this sounds crazy but I can’t stop. Carter Corinne Caleb …

  My name is Caitlin Mary Prudence Rectitude Singleberry and if you live in the middle section of New Jersey you might have heard of or maybe even listened to my family. My parents run a small grocery store but they also, along with my siblings, have been making records and performing since before I was born—at seventeen I’m right in the middle.

  I have always loved being a Singing Singleberry and I’ve always hoped that I would someday get married and have children who would join our family onstage and off, but I don’t know if this is still going to be possible. I don’t know if anyone let alone a wonderful Christian boy with firm morals, an openhearted smile and neatly pressed khakis will want to hear me sing ever again, let alone fall in love with me, not after the way I’ve behaved. On top of that I’m supposed to be going to college next year but that’s probably never going to happen. I’ve been so worried I won’t get accepted anywhere that I’ve applied to twelve schools and I’ve compulsively rewritten my essays and spell-checked them more times than I can count but now, well—what college on earth would even consider accepting someone with my criminal record?

  I don’t believe in blaming other people for my shameful actions because that is not what a Singleberry does. But may God forgive me because I do blame someone else for all of the unspeakable things that have happened. I blame my cousin Heller Harrigan.

  I know that Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek but with all due reverence, while Jesus suffered many dreadful things, he never met Heller. If he had I sincerely believe he would’ve added, “Turn the other cheek except when it comes to Heller Harrigan. You’re allowed to smack her as hard as you can. Tell her I said so.”

  I HATE HELLER HARRIGAN.

  I should start with this past Friday morning when my aunt Nancy came to our house for the first time in four years, since that other terrible day. I’m sorry but right now and maybe forever I’m too upset to even think about what happened on that earlier day, let alone discuss it. I’ve tried to never allow myself to remember it but every time I see Heller’s name or her picture or oh my Lord, one of her disgusting videos, I can’t help myself. Everything that happened on that day and everything that turned two families into strangers is all because of Heller and me.

  When I heard Aunt Nancy talking to my mom downstairs I was shocked. My mom called my name so I tiptoed downstairs to our living room.

  “Caitlin!” said Aunt Nancy. “Look at you! Carol, why didn’t you tell me? She’s a total hottie!”

  I instantly started back up the stairs until my mom said, “Catey, it’s okay. We need to talk to you. It’s an emergency. Nancy, please try and be more sensitive.”

  “I’m very sensitive!” said Aunt Nancy. “I was paying her a compliment! I mean, under that blazer and that sweater and all of that weird long hair, it looks like Catey’s got a rockin’ bod goin’ on. And Carol, for the one millionth time—it’s not Nancy, it’s Ecstasy.”

  “Nancy … ,” my mom said, taking a deep breath.

  “Look,” said Aunt Nancy, “I know that you think I changed my name because of the party drug but that’s totally not it. If I wanted to name myself after a drug, I’d just call myself Advil or Motrin or Penicillin. Actually, Penny Sillin’ might be kind of cool, if I was a rapper. But I changed my name years ago, after I met that amazing man in Calcutta who finally managed to give me a triple orgasm, I mean boom boom boom! It was like—what’s that incredibly difficult thing that figure skaters are always trying to do in the Olympics? The triple lutz? That was exactly what that gorgeous Amri Kapoor managed to do—he performed a triple lutz on my—”

  “Nancy!”

  “What? I should’ve held up a paddle with a score of one hundred and ten percent! Instead, I decided to honor my physical happiness and my emotional rebirth by changing my name to Ecstasy. Caitlin, you understand, don’t you?”

  I froze and I started to panic and I looked around desperately for someone else to answer the question.

  I should also mention that since I’d last seen her four years ago, Aunt Nancy’s electric-blue dreadlocks had grown almost to her waist and she was wearing one of her usual getups including a T-shirt that said I Want To Kill Everyone I Don’t Love, skintight jeans with holes in them and thigh-high pirate boots.

  “Speak up, Caitlin,” Aunt Nancy said. “You don’t ha
ve a problem calling me Aunt Ecstasy, do you? You’re seventeen now, just a few months younger than Heller, so you know your way around a triple orgasm, don’t you?”

  “M-M-M-Mom!” I finally blurted out.

  “Nancy,” said my mom, who was wearing a nice crisp white blouse and a denim wrap skirt like a mom should. “As usual, you’re being deliberately provocative just to upset Caitlin. That’s not why we’re here, is it?”

  Aunt Nancy got very quiet, which as you might imagine was something that almost never happened. Aunt Nancy is one of those people who like to keep talking about anything that pops into their heads; she has two speeds, full chatter or unconscious. Maybe that’s why she drinks and takes drugs, just to slow herself down. If Aunt Nancy was being quiet, something huge was definitely about to happen.

  Caitlin,” said my mom, “we know that years ago, you and Heller were very close. I hope you’ve understood why it’s been in both of you girls’ best interests to remain … apart.”

  “Because of—” Aunt Nancy began, but my mother glanced at her sharply.

  “We all remember what happened the last time our girls were together,” my mom said. “Caitlin, even though we try to keep you kids away from all of those trashy magazines and those gossip shows and all of that sludge on the Internet, I’m sure you’re aware that Heller has become something of … a celebrity.”

  Of course I knew that Heller had turned into a celebrity. Everybody in the world knows that. It was all Heller had ever wanted. Because in my opinion, Heller doesn’t have a soul.

  “But Heller isn’t just some reality show idiot,” Aunt Nancy said. “Heller is a star.”

  When we were little Heller and I would watch shows on the family-approved channels and a lot of the shows were about girls. Sometimes the girls were just nice girls and sometimes they were secretly witches or rock stars or geniuses. Heller loved those shows because the girls always wore fun outfits and sang and danced and lived in big, brightly colored houses and had nice parents and sometimes a snarky little brother. The stars of these shows always had a best friend who was either shy and nervous or fun and wisecracking. But while I knew those shows were just empty calories and that watching them could destroy important brain cells, Heller was studying them.

  “I can do that,” Heller would say and then she’d imitate the girls on her favorite shows by either flipping her hair or doing a dance move. Sometimes, when Heller would make us dance together or sing silly songs, I’d get confused because Heller would announce that we were on The Heller Harrigan Show or sometimes she’d call it Here Comes Heller. I’ll admit it, back then it was exciting to be around Heller because she was so, I’m not really sure what to call it, but I guess I’d say that Heller was always really eager to have adventures and jump around and stand right next to school crossing guards and try and make them dance with her.

  As for me, back then I was happy to be either Heller’s best friend or to be playing the role of Heller’s best friend. I once caught Heller staring at me and then she said, “On our show, I don’t think that you should be called Caitlin. I think you should be K-Bop.” I let Heller call me K-Bop mostly because I couldn’t stop her. It was fun to hang around with Heller because we were so little and because we hadn’t gotten into any trouble yet and because my parents hadn’t explained to me about how dangerous Heller could be. How evil.

  I know what you’re wondering: Wasn’t the fact that she was named Heller a warning sign, like a Parental Guidance Suggested sticker? When I was little I thought “Heller” was just another name, like Susan or Caitlin, but then my sister Corinne told me that being named Heller was like being named The Devil. Back then I wasn’t sure who the Devil was, so I asked my mom.

  “Well,” my mom had said while we were setting the table for dinner, which can take a long time for a family with so many people in it. “Your aunt Nancy has her own ideas about raising children,” my mom continued, straightening up the knives and forks after I’d put them next to the plates. “I actually had to talk her out of naming Heller something much worse.”

  “Like what?”

  My mom sighed and then she laughed. “She’d made a list. Until I put my foot down she was trying to decide between Heroin and Hurricane.”

  I’m so worried,” said Aunt Nancy in our living room. “I love Heller more than my own life and I raised her to be whatever she wanted to be and to explore every possibility and never to say no to any new experience. I just wanted her to be free and open and creative.” Then she looked right at my mom and said, “Because those are all really good things, no matter what anyone says.”

  “But there’s a difference,” said my mom, “between freedom and anarchy. Between running around being creative and forgetting to get an education, in order to become a decent human being.”

  “Jesus, Carol,” said Aunt Nancy. “I was doing my best.”

  “And look what happened,” said my mom in a very calm voice, as if the sisters were playing chess and my mom had just announced “Checkmate.”

  While Aunt Nancy had always been scattered and she’d had all of these different jobs and none of them for long, Heller had been determined. She’d used her mom’s computer to do research on agents and auditions and acting classes and she’d convinced Aunt Nancy to sign her up for all sorts of things and to drive her into New York City to audition for anything that needed a Girl, Ages 7–10, or a Happy Little Kid, 8–12, or a Beam of Sunshine, Must Be Able to Skateboard, Ages 8–11, No Older, We Mean It. The first thing Heller had booked, when she was nine, was a TV commercial for Nut Hut Extra Creamy Peanut Butter. In the ad Heller had snuck into a kitchen, climbed onto a countertop, grabbed a forbidden jar of peanut butter from a high shelf and then shoved her fingers into it. Her TV mom had caught her with peanut butter all over her face and hands and Heller had insisted that “Nut Hut Peanut Butter isn’t just extra creamy! It’s extra dreamy!”

  This commercial had been on TV for what seemed like twenty-four hours a day for two years and it had led to Heller getting more commercials and then a few smaller roles on TV shows, a TV pilot that didn’t get picked up and finally, the lead on a show called Anna Banana.

  Almost every girl in America and around the world had wanted to be Anna, who was this sweet good-hearted girl in middle school who was also secretly a top fashion model. During the day Anna would wear jeans and T-shirts and pull her hair back into a ponytail but on weekends and at night she’d wear makeup and designer gowns and get flown all over the world for photo shoots.

  The strange thing about Anna Banana was that when Anna was at home or at school, no one ever recognized her or realized that she was also Gloriana, the world-famous model. When she was just Anna she’d spend her days studying and playing soccer and hanging out with her friends and no boys ever wanted to go out with her; the mean kids would call her Anna Banana to make fun of her. But when she was Gloriana she’d go to clubs and parties and she’d appear on magazine covers and huge billboards, and rock stars and princes and Olympic gymnasts would be after her.

  Even though my parents had spent the last four years making sure Heller and I never saw each other and that Heller’s name was never mentioned in our house, they were the ones who arranged for this whole past weekend. I’m trying really hard not to hold them responsible for ruining my life and for pretty much guaranteeing that I’d end up in this jail cell, sitting right near a girl wearing a leather biker vest over her bare skin, who’s just asked me if she could lift up the bandage on my arm and take a look at my tattoo. My TATTOO? WAIT! WHAT?

  “You really don’t know?” says the girl. “Whoa. Maybe it’s like a laughing clown with his tongue pierced. Or maybe it’s like Satan eating an ice-cream cone only when you get real close the ice cream is all screaming babies.”

  I’m going to try counting the bars on the cell because I can feel the panic rising. My therapist has warned me about counting because once I start I can’t stop but right now I’m in jail and I have a horrible unknown ta
ttoo and I’ll start counting in one corner although if I end on an odd number the panic will only get worse but I don’t know what else to do and if the girl in the vest interrupts me I’ll have to start again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

  “What are you doing? Your lips are moving—are you counting the bars?”

  One, two, three …

  For the past year,” said my mom in our living room, “Heller has spiraled out of control. She’s become addicted to alcohol and to all sorts of drugs and she’s had at least one secret marriage that we know of, although I’m not sure if it was legal. She’s been arrested for drunk driving and shoplifting, but her lawyers made a deal with the court, so she’s been in rehab. She’s being allowed out for the first time. Later today.”

  I’d known that Heller’s life had gotten wild but I’d had no idea she was in so much trouble. For a second my heart went out to her, but only for a second. Because I’d warned her. When we were little I’d told her that if she kept skipping school and using bad words that terrible things would happen. While I didn’t want to act superior and snitty and tell Heller and everyone else I told you so, well, I TOLD YOU SO.

  YOU’RE WELCOME.

  “She’s being allowed out because I hope she’s been getting well, and because of her movie,” said Aunt Nancy.

  “Angel Wars,” I said, and suddenly everything was starting to make sense.

  If you’re a female between the ages of ten and assisted living, or even if you’re a guy or even if you’re too embarrassed to say it out loud, the Angel Wars books are your bible. They’re not my bible because the real Bible is my bible but even though I’ve been homeschooled and not allowed to watch regular TV, I know all about Angel Wars. Fine, I’ll admit it, I’ve read all of the books in the trilogy, which have sold more copies than there are people in the world because a lot of girls have hoarded multiple copies of each book and hidden the backup copies under their beds or in their lockers or in hollow trees, in case there’s a nuclear holocaust.