I'm Glad My Mom Died(42)

“No one’s looking, Jennetter. You’re fine.”

“I dunno.”

“The Victorious kids get drunk together all the time. The iCarly kids are so wholesome. We need to give you guys a little edge.”

The Creator always compares us iCarly kids to the kids on his other hit show, Victorious. I think he thinks it’ll make us try harder.

“I don’t know if drinking is what gives a person edge.”

I look at The Creator’s drink. He picks it up and sloshes it around. It’s some sort of whiskey mixed with coffee and cream. I do like coffee.

“One sip.”

“Okay.”

The Creator hands me his glass and I take a sip. I hate it.

“It’s great.”

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like when you lie to me.”

“I hate it.”

“That’s better, Jennetter.”

The Creator laughs. I’ve done well. I’ve pleased him. Mission accomplished. It’s the same mission I have every time I get dinner with him, which has gotten more and more frequent lately as my new contract for the spin-off he promised me is being worked out. The Creator is doing the thing that I’ve heard from my co-stars he does with every new star of a show that he’s making—he takes you under his wing. You’re his favorite. For now. I like being his favorite for now. I feel like I’m doing something right.

“So are you excited to have your own show?” The Creator asks.

“Sure.”

“Sure? That’s it?”

“No, of course I’m excited. I’m so excited.”

“Good. ’Cuz I could give a new show to anyone, you know. But I didn’t choose anyone. I chose you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, I chose you because you’re talented.”

I’m confused. He just said he could choose anyone, which made me feel not special and now he’s saying he chose me because I’m talented, which makes me feel special again. This kind of confusion is normal around him. I take a sip of water while I try and figure out what to say next. Luckily, I don’t have to.

“How’d you like the steak?”

“It was good.”

It was terrible, actually. Well, great and terrible. Great in terms of flavor, terrible in terms of how much I’m gonna be fixating on it for the rest of the night. I ate too much of it, and too many roasted potatoes, and too many brussels sprouts, and a roll, and glazed carrots. I couldn’t stop myself. I ate everything. I feel so full. I’m disgusted with myself.

Mom’s got me on a Nutrisystem diet again like we did back when we were in Nashville. We do it together, when we’re together. But that’s the thing—we’re not together as often these days. She’s consumed with her cancer stuff and I’m consumed with my TV stuff.

When Mom’s not around to motivate and coach me, I can’t seem to force myself to eat a cardboard cinnamon roll that tastes more like a protein bar wrapped around itself. I can’t seem to order the dressing-less salad. I can’t keep up my diet without Mom. I’m a failure without her.

“Are you okay?” The Creator asks.

“Of course.”

“Good, ’cuz you should be okay,” he says gently. “You’re about to star in your own TV show, for crying out loud. You know how many kids would kill for that opportunity? Every last one of them.”

I nod along. He reaches out and places his hand on my knee. I get goose bumps.

“You’re cold,” he says, concerned.

I don’t think that’s why I got the goose bumps, but I agree. It’s always best to agree with The Creator.

“Here, take my jacket.”

He takes his coat off and drapes it around me. He pats my shoulders and then the pat turns into a massage.

“Oof, you’re so tense!”

“Yeah…”

“Anyway, what was I saying?” he asks while he keeps massaging me. My shoulders do have a lot of knots in them, but I don’t want The Creator to be the one rubbing them out. I want to say something, to tell him to stop, but I’m so scared of offending him.

“Oh, right,” he says, remembering his train of thought without my help. “Every kid out there would kill for an opportunity like the one you’ve got. You’re very lucky, Jennetter.”

“I know,” I say while he keeps rubbing me.

And I do. I do know. I’m so lucky.





42.


“I CAN’T BELIEVE MY baby girl is moving away,” Mom says, in a way that’s different from how Grandma would say it. Grandma would be weeping and saying it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Mom says it quietly and can hardly make eye contact. Unlike her bill extension calls with Sprint PCS, this is not for show. I appreciate the ways in which Mom is different from her mother.

“It’s just for work days. I’ll come home on the weekends if I don’t have to go to Nashville.”

Mom sighs.

“That’s a big ‘if.’ I’m hardly gonna see my baby. Who’s gonna keep your eating on track? How are you gonna shampoo your hair?”

“Well, I did it on tour.”

“Yeah, but I saw pictures. It looked greasy.” She sniffles.