A Rising Star

Goodbye

By the time the Producers arrive, I am dressed in a white silk wraparound dress that falls just a breath past my thighs. My curls have been pulled out of my face. My full lips-the only thing I can say with certainty I inherited from my mother-are painted bright red. I don't bother with eyeliner or mascara. Even though I have no eyelashes to speak of, any eye make-up will streak and smudge when the tears inevitably flow.

"You shouldn't be so pretty," Momma says when I walk into the front room. She has always told me that after sixteen years of acting for the camera, she strives to be as honest as possible now. That was why she named me Bitter when I was born. "But if I knew now what I knew then," Momma used to say when I still fit on her lap. "I would have named you Blessing." I have always wavered between Bitter and Blessing in her eyes and I know whenever I return back to the mansion, I err on the side of Bitter.

She pursues her lips when she sees my charcoal-free eyes. "You know I hate it when you cry."

"It helps my ratings." Unlike her, I base my survival on the lies.

"When I was a Star, I didn't need to rely on such a weak reflection of female anatomy," Momma says the words under her breath as she gives me one last hug in private. The next one will be for the cameras and even though she insists that she is no longer an actress and that her days of Reality TV are over, she still knows how to put on a show when it benefits me.

This moment is goodbye.

We ride down the elevator in silence. I can already feel the first prickle of tears fill my eyes. Momma reaches out to grab my hand, squeezing it briefly before letting it drop. And then we step out into the lobby, where the cameras are waiting.

"And we're here now with the ardently talented Bitter and her infamous mother, Beauty," says the host who has been assigned to accompany the Producers. "How are you feeling after your two-week vacation in the suburbs?"

The microphone is shoved in my face and my mind flashes towards the girls in the mansion. Candid, who is a year older than me, would have shoved the host aside before announcing that she hated every second of her forced banishment. Vivacious, who is somewhat of a friend, would have smiled softly and said that she was grateful for time spent with family.

Not me, though. It was bad enough that I was three inches shorter than most the girls in our mansion, I also had to wrinkle my face and start crying, like I was 13 and just leaving for Hollywood. I am supposed to be a capable, burgeoning Superstar.

"And there goes our Baby," the host says as the tears stream down my face in two even flows.

I allow the tears to take effect. The moment goes long and I imagine the families on the other side of the television leaning forward, barely breathing as they await my response. "I just wish there was a way that I could have both my mother and my life in Hollywood at the same time." They are the right words. The host turns towards my mother.

"What about these rumors that your daughter has been tapped to be in this year's Elections?" I am afraid Momma's fingers will leave five oblong bruises on my upper arm. The back of my heel twists slightly to knock into her ankle. From the corner of my eye, I see the dazzling smile that knocked out an entire country.

"The only thing I want is my daughter's happiness."

The sincerity of her words makes the host falter for a moment before his smile locks firmly in place. "Of course, we hope the daughter doesn't follow in her mother's footsteps. The last thing we want is the disaster of a possible baby in the White House."

I imagine the invisible Viewers on the other side of the screens. Some may have gasped, their eyes widening for Momma's reaction. Still, more probably laugh. And there are those few-the ones who grew up with my mother and were jealous of her success-those are the ones who are smirking smugly at their television screens now. They may have failed first, but she failed the hardest.