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Chapter 11— The “Incident”
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Yelling, fighting, eye-rolling, snide under-breath comments, tightly-crossed arms, clenched teeth. The hands of the clock on the wall couldn’t seem to tick by fast enough as I sat in the principal’s office with my parents, my eyes averted to anywhere but their direction. My mom had been in a total fit ever since walking through the door while my dad had retreated back into the shell he always crawled into when situations became tense. For ten minutes now, we’d been seated around the large desk taking up half of the office space, yelling and fighting with each other over ‘my inappropriate and juvenile behavior’. I was embarrassed. I was more than embarrassed. I was absolutely mortified to have given my mom a reason to erupt her obstinate, insufferable hot lava everywhere.
“I didn’t raise you this way. We didn’t raise you this way,” she growled, smacking my father’s arm to grab his attention. He refused to do anything but look between Mom and me.
“This is stupid,” I shot back, “I’m not a violent person.”
My mother practically leaned over my father in his chair to shove her face forward. “Recently, Philly, I don’t know who you are. One minute, I think you’re my daughter, but suddenly, you’re some punk rock persona. Then, you’re practically a walking skeleton or you’re some sort of back-talking deviant. I don’t understand you anymore!”
I grabbed fiercely onto the arms of my chair, throwing a venomous look her way.
“You wanted this!” I shouted.
“I didn’t—”
“Ms. Emmet.”
Our bickering cut off at the haughty snipe of the school principal sitting at the desk in front of us. The principal, Mr. Jameson, a pasty man in his early fifties with stiffly styled brown hair and a bushy mustache, was no match for the hellish fury of my mother but tried his best to maintain some sort of order.
Both my mother and I reluctantly calmed ourselves back into our chairs and let Mr. Jameson take over.
“With all due respect,” he began, hands folded atop his desk, “I didn’t call Philadelphia’s parents here to start yet another fight in my office. I called the parents in to discuss the events of today and what steps must be taken.”
A brief moment of silence passed amongst us before my mother composed herself and spoke in a completely new tone, “Of course. My apologies, Mr. Jameson.”
The man eyed my mother before nodding sternly and looking back at me.
“Philadelphia, I hope you understand that what you did today will not be accepted at Crossland High School in any capacity whatsoever. We have a zero violence policy here, and you will not be the exception.”
“She didn’t know,” my mother added. “She was in homeschooling for over a year before this. She showed anti-social behaviors—”
“Mom!”
“I understand, Ms. Emmet,” Mr. Jameson continued, completely disregarding me, “But, your daughter assaulted another student, a football player, at that. And here at Crossland High, we teach our students that actions have consequences. Philadelphia, I know that Kurt Klein isn’t the nicest student walking the halls, and perhaps you felt some need to be the hero, but you instigated the fight. You made the decision to cause harm.”
Oh God, gimme a break.
I stayed quiet, my jaw clenched tight and my arms crossed over my chest. I hated this, every bit of this. I wanted to scream out so loud that every window would shatter in this stupid place. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me as she waited for some sort of reaction, some sort of fight and disobedience from me. But, instead, I let it all sit and bubble underneath the surface.
She turned back to the principal, a new look of desperation masking her anger. “Mr. Jameson, Philly can’t be suspended. This is her last year of school. If it ever got out that she was expelled for something like this, her career would take a hit. I promise that this kind of behavior will never happen again.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Emmet. There’s nothing I can do—”
“Please,” Mom hastened, throwing her hands on the desk, “Counseling. Detention. Volunteer work. Whatever she can do instead. Philly cannot have this on her record.”
“What is this? Jail?”
She shot me an ugly look with fire in her eyes. “Shut up.”
Mr. Jameson drew his hands from his desk and eyed me down as if I was some sort of alien species. It made me feel way too uncomfortable, and I tightened my arms over my chest. His face was grim yet curious when he finally turned back to my mother.
“You said this was an isolated incident?”
“Yes, yes,” my mother rushed.
He mulled over it for a minute and pulled out a file laid out on his desk under a few papers. He flipped through several pages and read over a few lines.
“Seems she hasn’t had any other disciplinary actions taken against her in the past.”
“Yes, she’s been as good as gold.”
God, I almost gagged at how pathetically miserable my mother appeared nearly on her knees before the man. A look of distress and dismay filled her eyes to the brim and her hands were clasped together in her lap. I had always known my mother to use every tool in her library to get what she wanted and to do what needed to be done. But, was there ever a line to be crossed?
Mr. Jameson pinched the bridge of his nose and finally nodded. “Look, if it means that much to her career, we’ll work out something else. The last thing we need is some sort of stain on Crossland’s image if it does happen to get out as you said.”
My mother let out a huge sigh of relief, letting her head fall. “Thank you, Mr. Jameson. Thank you so much.”
The man scribbled something in the file before closing it. “Philadelphia can carry out her time in after-school detention for the next two weeks instead.”
I shut my eyes and blew out an aggravated sigh. I only ever had detention once during my sophomore year of high school when Valerie and I were caught smoking in the girl’s bathroom. Two whole weeks of it would completely drain me.
After my mom kissed Mr. Jameson’s ass a bit more, we finally left out into the hall. Rodrick and his family had gone. Maybe that was for the best. I was sent home for the rest of the day since Mr. Jameson thought it’d be a better idea to take the weekend to let everyone cool off.
And as Mom, Dad, and I walked out to the parking lot in absolute silence, I felt an emptiness take the place of my bitterness. What would happen now?
I couldn’t help but replay my mother’s words over and over in my mind. Was I a different person? Between Jenny Tyler and Anarchy Road, sometimes I too got confused on where Philly Emmet fit in in all of it. It seemed for every person I met, I had to be someone specific. I had to please, to meet expectations, to put on a show. It was what I was good at. But, in the process, I felt myself—the real me—shrivel up and slowly dissolve. How long would it be before I could hardly recognize myself in the mirror anymore?
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I was grounded. For two weeks, I was grounded and told to suffer in silence.
The last time I could remember being grounded was right after “the incident”. The very “incident” that caused me to land in that stupid rehabilitation center and become homeschooled. The very “incident” that nearly ended Anarchy Road. The very “incident” every member of my family refuses to talk about anymore.
It all happened on our Northeast U.S. tour two years ago. After “Kissing the Reaper” hit the Billboard Top 100, we rented a tour bus, lined up a bunch of concerts in nearby states (New Jersey, Connecticut, New York), and just drove. It was one of the greatest times of my life. Performing in stadiums and big auditoriums, selling out several shows, seeing our fans up close and in person…It made me feel just the way I did as a kid, singing along with “Rhiannon” on the radio and feeling the melody pulse in my bloodstream. Nothing else had ever made me feel as alive as I felt in those moments.
We made money. Good money. Most of it went straight to my college fund or to pay off recording studio debt, but it was enough to make my parents giggle and swoon. I didn’t care so much about that part as long as I had Val, Freddy, and Trevor rocking out beside me.
But, I didn’t take care of myself back then. Trevor and I had been dating for just a few months after a drunken kiss at our album release party, and he thought it a great opportunity to get me to eat something—a slice of pizza, a couple of Twizzlers, half a cheeseburger. Anything. But, I had my own system. And no one could tear that down.
All of that ended one night during one of our last concerts—Albany, New York. A big crowd had come out, almost every seat was filled. I knew before the show even started that I’d taken it too far. I skipped the past several meals—days worth. I wanted to look good for the last few gigs. I had to look good. And my skinny jeans were having too hard of a time buttoning.
The entire show, I felt sick. A roaring headache burned against my skull and my arms felt so weak that I could hardly strum my guitar. I drank nothing but water all day yet my mouth still felt like sandpaper. And I became so dizzy that I had to grip onto the mic stand to not tip over. All I could remember was the muffled rock music vibrating in my earplugs as I held onto each breath. The stage lights blinding me and feeding fuel to my agonizing migraine. My name softly chanting far off in the distance by thousands of tiny voices. Comforting darkness easing me further and further onto the ground.
The next morning, it was plastered over every blog and every music news channel: Philly Emmet, lead singer of Anarchy Road passes out onstage at New York concert.
I’d been rushed to the hospital and hooked up on IVs for days, nutrition finally being reintroduced into my system whether I liked it or not. I thought my parents would disown me, cut me out of their will, and curse the day I was born. But, instead, something strange occurred in my mother. She cried—really cried. She brought me my favorite blankets and my lavender and vanilla candle. She refused to answer calls from our label or our reps. She stayed by my side even when I screamed for her to go away.
For a while, it was almost as if I had a real mother again. One who cares for you and dries your tears and makes you terrible chicken soup that you still love. I had almost forgotten what it was like.
Not long after, we’d made the decision to transfer me to a nearby rehabilitation center for anorexics and bulimics. There I took a break from music and from Anarchy Road, instead focusing on my therapy sessions and my private schoolwork. The band went dark for a while, remaining quiet and hiding under the radar. We figured no bad attention was good attention. And had it not been for the success of the tour, we might’ve gone completely bankrupt. Trevor ended things between us shortly after, instead encouraging me to focus on my health. So, I did.
I spent the rest of the year and the following spring in the rehabilitation center, slowly gaining enough muscle and fat to get to what would be considered a “healthy weight”. I started viewing myself differently, or at least I convinced myself to. And Valerie took up the role as the dedicated, supportive best friend in every aspect. For the first time in years, Anarchy Road faded into the background of my life and my family and friends filled its place. I didn’t have to be “Philly Emmet, lead singer of Anarchy Road”, and I certainly didn’t have to be Jenny Tyler. I just got to be me, the broken and insecure me. And as terrified and vulnerable as that made me feel, I never wanted that moment to end.
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