Page 36 of The Ex-Best Thing
“I like it,” I say.
“Keep listening,” Grandma says ominously.
The lyrics cut through, and something uneasy settles low in my gut. I think I hear a name…I lean in closer. No, no name, but it’s obvious who she’s singing about. This is a song about Bree’s celebrity nemesis. I listen closer, tucking my chin. “Did she just say ‘Judas in heels’?”
“Yep,” Grandma says, nodding and pressing her lips together.
I take the phone and hold it closer, scrubbing back to the beginning and paying closer attention to the lyrics. The title is “Hashtag Medusa” and, while it’s extremely catchy, it’s just…mean. There isn’t another word for it.
I scroll to the song credits at the bottom and find the writer: Bree Belacourt. No other names are listed. One person gets credit for this atrocity, and she’s spent the last seventy-two hours making me smile.
Well, that’s both disappointing and surprising. The feud between the women has been public for the last few years, but it really escalated recently.
“Is this why she’s hiding?” Grandma asks.
“She hasn’t talked to me about it.”
She shakes her head and takes the phone back after I listen to it a second time. “It’s not her typical anthem of girl power and positive femininity.”
“Nope,” I agree. It’s the opposite.
This isn’t the Bree I know—it’s vindictive and hurtful. I’m not only surprised Bree is capable of producing, singing, and releasing this, I’m shocked her team and label are willing to stand behind it. There has to be an explanation, a reason shewould sing a song that so blatantly calls out another artist, something that overtly tears down another person.
I can’t reconcile these lyrics with the woman who spent her Christmas last year visiting children in the pediatric wings of various New York hospitals. Or the woman who went on a hunger strike when we were teens because her dad wouldn’t allow her to donate some of her modeling earnings to a women’s shelter in LA after seeing how badly they needed funds. She’s always been privileged, but her heart has been equally soft.
Theremustbe a reason for this song.
And I’m going to find out what it is.
11
BREE
It’s out.The song is live.
It happened early this morning. I checked to see if my label took mercy on me and canceled the release—no surprise, they hate me, they ignored my pleading emails and it went ahead as planned—then immediately put my phone in a bathroom cupboard on the other side of the house and buried myself in blankets on the king-sized bed.
Usually I celebrate releases with a new pair of earrings. It’s my thing. I love stepping into Kate Spade or Tiffany and perusing the options, searching for something that vibes with the music I’m sharing with the world. I have them lined up in my jewelry box at my apartment in Manhattan, and I’ll wear different albums’ earrings to convey different things to the media.
The spike in sales on whatever pair I choose has caused brands to reach out asking me to rep them, too. But my earring selection has to be authentic. It has tomeansomething.I owe it to my fans.
Especially because my fans get in on it, too. Before releases, depending on what hints I’ve dropped or singles I’ve let out, thecover art, or even what I’ve been wearing during the weeks leading up to it, they’ll start window-shopping earrings they think I’ll choose. Conspiracy theorists make TikToks about them. It’s a whole thing. The conjecture is part of the fun. I feel like we’re all shopping together—me and my forty-nine million followers.
There will be no earrings today.
There will be no celebrating at all.
Although, I noticed a teardrop hoop on Tiffany’s site…those would be fitting.
Butno. I don’t deserve it. If anything, I’ll do a symbolic burial and rid myself of my favorite pair. It’s what I deserve.
I’m serious too, so it’s a good thing those dangling bows are back home in my jewelry box. I could have Olive overnight them to me, but that would mean A: reaching out to my sister, which would open myself up to the opinions of my family, and B: letting people know where I am.
It’s a good thing I’m in hiding, because even my die-hard fans are not going to support this song.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
No, that’s not true. I was angry. I lashed out. I wrote and recorded and watched the production of this hate-anthem happen in a cloud of self-righteous indignation. It wasn’t until they sent me the final product that I closed my eyes and listened to it, imagining a fifteen-year-old girl at home on her sofa, listening to the song with her friend, that it hit me.
