Crashed

somewhere above the crowd as though there were a ball of light drifting there, maybe bringing the Good Witch of the East to her rescue. Trey watched nervously. To her it may have seemed as though Thistle was in command of herself, waiting calmly for order, but her grip on my wrist actually hurt, and the knuckles of her other hand, clasping the arm of her chair, were about to burst through the skin. Eventually, the noise died away.

“That’s better,” Thistle said. Her voice was very small. People in the four rows of seats leaned forward to hear her and some of them held up small tape recorders. The film crews standing at the back of the room fiddled with their equipment. “Someone asked-” She cleared her throat and started over, louder this time. “Someone asked who this man is. He’s my personal burglar. Every girl needs a burglar, and he’s mine.” They started to shout again, and Thistle held up both hands. When it was relatively quiet again, she said, “I have very sensitive hearing. Especially right now. If you keep yelling, I’ll have to leave. Just put up a hand, and I’ll call on you one at a time.”

From her side of the stage Trey said, “I thought I might choose the questions.”

Without turning her head, Thistle said, “Did you really?” Trey gave her a smile that should have sliced her in half, and stepped back in retreat.

“What’s his name?” a photographer called. “For the captions.”

“My name is Pockets Mahoney,” I said.

“Pockets is a nickname,” Thistle said. “You should put it in quotation marks, those of you who bother to punctuate.” She pointed to a woman in the middle of the first row and said, “You. You get to shoot first.”

“Thistle,” the woman said, oozing empathy. “You were a big star. Why are you doing this?”

Thistle said, “I need money. Don’t you ever need money?”

“But you sold your residuals,” the woman said. “You got hundreds of millions of dollars for them. What happened to all that?”

“I made bad investments,” Thistle said.

Other people were waving their hands, but the woman persisted. “Investments in what?”

Thistle said, “Pharmaceuticals,” and pointed at a short man with a toupee so bad I could spot it past all the lights.

“You have a whole generation of new fans,” he began.

Thistle said, “If you say so.”

“Most of them are young girls. How do you think they’ll feel to know you’re making an adult film? Do you think that you’re a good role model for them?”

The girl who did Thistle’s hair had put some sort of guck on her bangs to make them look spiky, and she took one of the spikes and twirled it between her fingers, her hand hiding part of her face. “Do you want a serious answer?”

“Sure,” the reporter said.

“Okay. I don’t think young girls should need role models. I think they should grow up on their own. But if they do need role models, it’s dumb to use somebody who’s on television. They should use someone they know. A teacher, maybe, or an older sister. Maybe their mother. Not my mother, obviously, but their mother. My mother wouldn’t be a good role model for a serial killer, much less-” I squeezed her shoulder, and she broke off. “Look, nobody who saw me on television knows anything at all about me. I was never that little girl. Anyway, what kind of role model is a witch? How dumb is that? ‘My role model solves problems with magic.’ So what’s she going to do when she’s seventeen years old and she gets pregnant by some asshole with a stocking cap and a bolt through his lower lip? She going to wave a wand at her stomach? Suppose she marries some jerk who hits her. She’s going to dematerialize before he connects? Actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a stupid question.” She pointed at someone else. “Your turn.”

“You were the most famous little girl in America for seven years-”

“Eight,” Thistle said.

“Sorry. How has it felt to live in obscurity for the last eight or nine years?”

“Obscurity?” Thistle said, leaning on the word heavily enough to make it sag in the middle. “I guess that’s one way to put it. It took me a while to adjust to obscurity, to use your word, not to mention poverty and a closer relationship with the world of large insects living under sinks. As you can probably guess, it was very different. Not that it was all bad. You know, in my old life I’d gotten used to having vultures circling around all the time, waiting for me to pick my nose or smoke a cigarette in public so they could deliver it into people’s houses that night. So I didn’t have bugs, but I had vultures. I’d started to think it was normal to have cameras shoved in my face all the time and hear people shout rude questions at me and then, when I was tired of being worked to death or had a stomachache and didn’t answer, they’d say that I wasn’t grateful or something, like they’d made me famous, when all they were really trying to do was take a bite out of me so they could get their forty-five seconds of face time on some shitty cable channel.” She glanced up at me. “Coming because they smell blood and then spitting some of it up on camera. I’d gotten used to having these people live on me, sort of like mold on bread.” I put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “I can’t really say I missed being part of all that, where people like you make a big deal out of people like me just so you can turn around and start grinding us into sausage.” She stopped and drew a couple of quick breaths. “So, yeah, I had to adjust, but I can’t say I cried myself to sleep every night. Basically, I like the bugs better than I liked the vultures.”

“But here you are again,” the reporter said nastily.

“And so are you,” Thistle said. “And a few dozen exactly like you. At least there’s only one of me.”

I caught a glimpse of motion on the far side of the stage and saw Trey stepping back out of sight. She kept her eyes on Thistle as she pulled out a cell phone and started to dial.

Thistle pointed at someone else, a female I recognized from local news, where she did stories about how even regular people are interesting, and isn’t that great? “You,” Thistle said.

“You mentioned your mother a minute ago. Are you speaking to her?”

“I’m sorry,” Thistle said. “I didn’t hear you.” She started to point at someone else, but the reporter pushed on.

“Your mother,” she said. “I asked if you-”

“Can’t hear a word,” Thistle said. “Next.”

Trey was talking on the phone, saying something sharp if her expression was any indication. Her eyes were still on Thistle. It looked like Trey was reconsidering her resale value.

“Why are you so hostile?” was the question.

“Hostile?” Thistle said. “This isn’t hostile. This is just recess, we’re playing together nicely. I mean, come on, let’s at least be honest. You’ve all come here to make an omelet, and I’m the egg you have to break.”

Trey hung up the phone and came back into the light.

“Why do you say that?” the reporter asked. “Why do you assume we’re not on your side?”

“Okay.” Thistle held up two fingers in a V formation. “First, let’s forget personal experience, which I’ve had a lot of. But today, today there are two possible stories, right? Let’s not be hypocrites. You’re all going to leave with one or the other. The first one is, Look, everybody, that cute little kid grew up to be a slut. That’s like the moral high ground angle. Whoever delivers it will probably work up a righteous frown. The second one is, Gee, isn’t it tragic, that cute little kid grew up to be a slut. That’s the compassionate angle, accompanied by a sad shake of the head, and probably mostly from female reporters whose hair won’t move. Maybe one or two of you will take it further and go for a local Emmy, talk about the death of innocence in America or some puke like that. You know, The crooked road out of childhood. Any way you do it, I’m a slut, and probably a drug addict, and how much would you enjoy being up here while all of you pretend to be so fucking sympathetic?” She waved the question away. “Next,” she said, aiming a finger at someone.

“We’ve all heard rumors about your drug use,” said a reporter from some print outlet, armed with nothing but a little notebook.

“Is there a question there?” Thistle asked. “And when’s somebody going to ask whether my feet smell?”

“Well, is it true? There were stories that Hollywood Division had arrested you a couple of times and then let you go without pressing charges.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.” Thistle gave him an exaggerated nod. “And why do you think they might have done