Page 55 of Bless This Hot Mess

“That’s why we’ve got Micah on our side,” Japheth said, grinning.

“Speaking of sexy,” Rebekkah added with a sly smile.

“Were we…?” Ronald scrunched his nose, wondering what he’d missed.

“Can we also find a way to make the radio station’s theme song a little sexier? You know, really give the listeners something to talk about? I just think if we’re going to grab listeners by their earlobes, the organ music and Gregorian chant of the station channel ID may need to be redone.”

“Are you saying you want to give WWJD a make-over?” Japheth teased.

Rebekkah winked, “Well, if the beard fits…”

Japheth laughed, and for the first time in days, everything felt right. Trinity was stronger than ever, and with their band of merry men, and one fabulous woman, they were ready to take on Greater Napanee.

Ronald reached into his pockets and pulled out three cans of root beer and passed them around, “To Trinity. To stealing songs and resharing them with our town, thirsty for good news. And to doing it all… with style and swagger.”

They raised their cans, clinking them together like it was the finest champagne. “Trinity today, Trinity tomorrow, Trinity forever,” Japheth toasted, grinning from ear to ear, feeling lighter than he had in years. Everything was falling into place.

* [Note to reader: If you’ve been mispronouncing his name in your head or mouthing it awkwardly each time it appears in a sentence or silently cursing me because it did indeed sneak up on you in another paragraph, please go back to page 1 and begin again–correctly this time. Don’t worry, we’ll be right here when you return and we can all continue with confidence. Respectfully yours, the Author.]

Chapter 7

Designing Women

Rebekkah Mordecai knew one thing for certain: her life was just one missed phone call away from stardom, or so her mother kept insisting.

It was a balmy, late afternoon, the kind of day where the heat clung to you like guilt after skipping Sunday service. The back door to Rebekkah’s small, cluttered house squealed on its rusty hinges as she swung it open, its protest as loud as the sigh she let out the moment she crossed the threshold. The scent of something unmistakably fried (and possibly forgotten) hung in the air. Probably the remnants of her mother’s ongoing battle with the deep fryer. That thing had seen more chicken than the Colonel himself.

The house was a shrine to tacky mid-century decor. Velvet paintings of Jesus, eyes soft and sorrowful, hung next to faded, framed pictures of Rebekkah’s glory days in youth choir, her face plastered in a smile so wide it bordered on deranged. She dropped her bag onto the linoleum floor with a thud, its contents spilling out; a headshot, an old playbill forGodspell, and the last remnants of hope for a career that might just finally happen.

“This roof keeps me dry when the rain falls. This door helps to keep the cold at bay. On this floor, I can stand on my own two feet… It isn’t much but it is enough for me. For this is my house! This is my house!” Rebekkah sang as she wandered through the kitchen. It was a little ditty she sang each time she came home; the lyrics having somehow sprung into her mind the way that prophecies often plagued the prophets–out of nowhere, seemingly without a connecting thread of logic to pull on. In this case, the enlightenment was pilfered from the future smash West End musicalMatilda, but it wouldn’t premiere until 2011, so at this point Rebekkah was simply the dowsing rod of the musical muse, an unknowing market test for ear worms before they were introduced to the public at large.

“Blessings on this house. Hi, Mom!” Rebekkah called out in her usual singsong voice, forcing cheerfulness even as she noticed the distinct hum of conversation with a visitor, a stranger, lurking in the living room.

The living room opened before her, a museum of her mother’s insistence that everything not nailed down should be covered in plastic. The faux-leather sofa shimmered under its protective sheath, making it look more like an art installation than a piece of furniture. And there, perched like a queen in her throne, was Rebekkah’s mom in her motorized chair, a large glass of iced tea sweating in the crook of her elbow. Her hair, bigger than a Texas skyline, was a monument of its own, shellacked into place with enough hairspray to warrant a fire safety warning.

And next to her on the couch, looking wildly out of place, was a stranger. Middle-aged, thinning hair, earnest. The kindof person whose only rebellion was choosing beige over khaki.

Rebekkah stopped mid-stride, her eye catching the stranger’s large notepad and voice recorder. This couldn’t be good. Or could it? Lady luck did seem to have finally noticed her existence.

“Mom, what’s happening? Who is this?” she asked, suspicion heavy on her tongue, though deep down she already knew the answer. Her mother had that look; the look of a woman about to meddle.

Her mother’s motorized chair whirred to life, inching forward like a regal vessel making its way through a royal procession as she explained, “An entertainment reporter fromThe Napanee Beavernewspaper, Rebekkah. They’re here to interview you!” Her tone was filled with excitement, as though she had personally called in the press to announce Rebekkah’s imminent global takeover. Perhaps she had.

Rebekkah felt her stomach drop.The Napanee Beaver. The smallest of small-town papers, the kind that covered pie-eating contests and cow births with equal gravitas. She hadn’t exactly been hoping to make headlines there. But knowing her mother, theBeaverwas only step one in an elaborate PR plan.

The reporter adjusted his glasses and turned on his recorder, “And I’m recording. So, tell me a little about what Rebekkah was like as a child?”

Rebekkah’s eyes widened. Oh no. This was going to get cringy fast.

Her mother, ever poised to turn even the smallest interaction into a press release, beamed at the question, her hair gleaming under the living room’s gaudy chandelier. “Well, we always knew Rebekkah was going to be a star,” she paused, and shot a look at her daughter. “Cross your legs, dear.”

Rebekkah, mortified but obedient, tucked one leg over the other. She knew this would only get worse before it got better.

Her mother continued without skipping a beat, “And she already is at our church. She’s in the choir, and she’s the secretary in the youth group.” She nodded proudly, as if theBeaverreporter was about to be knocked off his feet by this bombshell revelation, “She has great penmanship. She gets that from me.”

“Mom…” Rebekkah interjected, her face flushing, “Stop it.” The reporter scribbled something down, possibly,great penmanship, a surefire way to secure that record deal and an above the fold headline.

But her mother was undeterred, “Well, you do. She really does. You know, people ask her to write letters for them or… or notes… or sometimes a… uh, a grocery list.” She clapped her hands together as if this was something the Pope himself should know about. “Remember that one time Mrs. Stalwart asked you to write her grocery list because her arthritis was so bad last winter?”