Confidently Clueless — Chapter 1

Chapter one:

Confidence is something you’re born with. Or at least I was. But that doesn’t mean you know everything. Like I didn’t know I would lose my mother. I didn’t realize how different my father was. I didn’t know family was something that could change. I didn’t realize the universe is totally and completely out of your control. And what was love? If you know things like that, would that change who you are? Would I be more confident than I was then? Or would my confidence disappear completely? Would you think if there was one star who was shining, that it would bring others to blossom and bloom and shine just as bright? Or would the others shrivel back and watch the first shine on? My mom was an amazing actress, Reece Kingsley. Everyone used to call her the child prodigy of her generation, and she somehow grew up to be exactly the kind of person every movie wanted as its star. You could watch any scene she was in and forget the rest of the world existed. People said she had a way of making you feel whatever she was feeling. She was beautiful too, bright blonde hair that always seemed to fall perfectly, no matter what she did with it. Her eyes were this incredible shade of blue that made people stop and stare. She was tall and confident and had this presence that filled every room. I get a lot from her; my confidence, my hair, my face. My height came from both my parents, but my eyes? Those are all my dad’s. My mom met my dad back in high school. They were young and completely in love. After graduation, I came along, earlier than anyone expected. Most people thought Mom’s acting career was over after that. Having a baby at her age didn’t exactly scream “Hollywood comeback.” Dad was busy working with my grandpa, but he always tried to be there for Mom. He would’ve done anything for her. During her pregnancy, Mom became close friends with another soon-to-be mom, Laysha Rodriguez. A year after I was born, Mom surprised everyone and landed a role in what became the biggest movie of the decade. Suddenly, she was back on every billboard, named “Most Loved Actress” like she’d never left. Laysha’s boyfriend disappeared right after she told him she was pregnant with Graham, so things were hard for her. Mom’s career was taking off again, throwing her back into the spotlight and the insane schedule of an actress, and Laysha was struggling to get by as a single mother, so they leaned on each other. They kind of built this little family out of friendship and chaos. Which meant that Graham and I grew up side by side. He was always small for his age and a pretty good listener, and I got my personality and the tall genes from both my parents, so I naturally took charge. Even though he was two months older, I bossed him around and dragged him into every adventure I could find. Graham was good at keeping up with me on my sarcastic tangents. He was good for me. When he got hurt, I’d hold him while he cried, wipe his tears, and push his messy hair out of his eyes. I was his protector, and he was my Graham. We were together almost every day. If Mom was busy filming, I’d go over to Graham’s, and Laysha would make pupusas for us. If Laysha was working one of her many shifts, Graham would come to our place, and Mom would play games with us. Most nights, we’d end up asleep in a pile of pillows or inside some half-collapsed cardboard fort. When we were seven, we built a raft out of pool noodles and duct tape. I swore it would float. It didn’t. We sank halfway across the pool and laughed so hard that our moms came running out of the house thinking someone had drowned. Laysha yelled at Graham first. My mom yelled at me second. We got popsicles anyway. That night, after our raft disaster, Graham slept over at my house. The air smelled like chlorine and sugar, and his hair stuck up in a dozen directions from the pool water. We lay side by side on the living room carpet with a fan humming nearby, my dog-eared picture books scattered around us. Graham turned his head toward me. “Do you think we’ll still be friends when we’re old?” “How old?” I asked. He shrugged. “Like, thirty.” I laughed. “Thirty’s not old. That’s just grown-up.” “Well, when we’re grown-up then.” I thought for a second, then said, “Of course we will. Why wouldn’t we be?” He was quiet for a while. The fan clicked and turned. “Sometimes my mom says people change. So lots of grown-ups probably change so much that they don’t want to be friends anymore.” “That’s because grown-ups are boring,” I said. “We’re not gonna be like that.” He nodded, still staring at the ceiling. “Good. I don’t wanna lose you.” I didn’t know what to say back, so I just bumped his shoulder with mine. “You won’t,” I said. “You’ve got me forever.” He smiled at that — small, but real — and reached into the candy bowl to grab a handful, half of it spilling onto the floor. Mom would’ve yelled if she’d seen, but I didn’t care. After a moment, he said, “You know what I think?” “What?” “I think you’re brave.” “Brave?” I wrinkled my nose. “Why?” “You always do the things I’m scared to do,” he said simply. “Like climbing trees and yelling at big kids. You don’t even think about it—you just do it.” I rolled over onto my side to look at him. His green eyes were steady, almost too serious for someone our age. “That’s not brave. That’s just... me.” He smiled again, soft and sure. “That’s what I mean.” I didn’t really understand it then—the way he looked at me like I was something special. But now, looking back, I think Graham already knew what kind of person I was long before I did. One night when we were about nine, Graham and I were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a giant bowl of popcorn between us, watching one of Mom’s old movies. It was one she’d done when she was my age, back before she was famous-famous. I’d seen it a dozen times, but it never stopped feeling like magic. She was playing some princess who had to save her kingdom from an evil duke, and I remember thinking the whole time, I could do that. The way she smiled, the way she cried, it didn’t even seem like acting. It just felt real. I wanted to be like that. When the credits rolled, I turned to her and said, “I’m gonna be just like you someday.” Mom laughed, the kind of laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You think so?” “No,” I said, grinning. “I know so.” I jumped up, ran to her, and wrapped my arms around her as I giggled. Laysha, curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, said, “You better watch out, Reece. Blake Muin is coming for your crown.” Mom winked at me. “Then I guess I’d better keep practicing.” “Blake, mija, don’t forget about me when you’re big and famous,” Laysha said, pretending to pout. I ran over to her next, and she laughed, peppering the top of my head with kisses. “I won’t, Mamà,” I promised. Graham looked over at me like I’d just announced I could fly. “You’re gonna be famous,” he said. “Obviously,” I told him. He nodded, all serious, like he was already picturing it. “Can I be your bodyguard?” “Only if you don’t mind signing autographs,” I said, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. He caught it and laughed, and for a moment, it felt like we were all part of something bigger, like we were already living in one of Mom’s movies. Then one afternoon in fourth grade, we were sitting on the swings during recess when some kid (I don’t even remember his name) walked by and said, “You two are like, in love, right?” It was the way he said it, all smug and snickering, that made the air go weird. Graham looked like he wanted to vanish into the mulch. I just blinked at the kid. “Ew,” I said. “No.” He laughed, like he didn’t believe me, and kept walking. A few seconds later, I’d already forgotten about the whole thing. Graham and I ended up making our own hammock out of his shirt and my sweater, and when we got home from school, Laysha was not happy to see me in just a tank top and Graham’s shirt stretched out beyond saving. But at recess the next day, the boy said it again—louder this time. That’s when I decided I didn’t like him. So, after school, I found him by the bike rack. I told him, very calmly, that if he ever said anything like that again, I’d make sure he couldn’t sit comfortably in class for a week. He didn’t say anything. He just nodded and walked away. After that, nobody made the mistake of thinking Graham and I were dating. Ever. Graham didn’t ask what I said, and I didn’t tell him. We just went back to walking home, kicking pebbles down the sidewalk like nothing happened. That was how it always was, me charging forward, him quietly keeping up. We were kids, but in my head, I already knew how the world worked: if I was brave enough, I could fix things. Keep things steady. Make life be whatever I wanted. But life doesn’t work like that. By the time I was ten, I’d started noticing how grown-ups could love each other and still argue about the same things forever. My dad loved my mom. Everyone could see it. He looked at her like she was sunlight — too bright to stare at for long, but impossible to look away from. But sometimes that love came with a sigh, or a pinch of his nose, or the quiet clink of a coffee mug against the counter after Mom said something like, “Laysha’s car broke down again, so I helped her out.” “It’s not charity, Clinton,” Mom would say, brushing a crumb from the counter. “It’s friendship.” He’d glance at her, jaw tightening. “Friendship doesn’t mean covering someone’s bills.” Then, as if realizing he sounded cold, he’d pour her a cup of tea, set it down beside her, and kiss her forehead. That was his way of ending an argument, never loud, just final. Clinton Muin didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. His whole life ran on structure and precision, and people just fell in line. He worked for his father’s company, Muin International, one of those businesses that seemed to own a little piece of everything. Shipping. Hotels. Real estate. He was second in command, handling international affairs, the kind of work that had him on calls at odd hours and on planes more than he liked to admit. He was proud of that job, not in the way that needed attention, but in the kind that came from where he came from. His dad built the company from nothing, and Dad grew up surrounded by everything that came after. He’d been handed more than most, but he never really saw it that way—it was just the world he knew. Even now, when he’s careful to be respectful and proper, you can still hear traces of that old world in him. The way he pauses when Mom brings up the Rodriguezes. The way he smiles, polite but distant. He’d never say it, but I think some part of him still believes effort should look a certain way. Mom would try to smooth it over. “They’re good people, Clint.” “They’re fine,” he’d say, which in Dad-language meant, “I’d rather not talk about this” What he didn’t like, what really got to him, was when Mom “helped”. When Laysha needed new tires for her old Toyota Corolla, Mom bought them. When Graham’s shoes wore out, she sent a box to their address across town “because they were on sale.” Dad would smile politely in front of me, and then later, when the house was quiet, I’d hear him say, “You can’t save everyone, Reece. It’s not fair to them.” Mom would just hum in that breezy way she did, kiss his cheek, and do it again next time. She had that kind of heart, the soft, reckless kind that gave everything away and somehow never ran out. Sometimes, when I went to Graham’s after school, I’d start to understand what Dad meant, even if I didn’t agree with him. Their house was smaller, louder, full of warm smells and mismatched furniture. There were fingerprints on the walls and a tiny crack in the window over the sink that Laysha kept meaning to fix, and the TV always seemed to be playing something in Spanish. It was messy in the best way, alive. Laysha would ruffle my hair and say, “Mi casita es tu casita, Blake,” and hand me a plate of something that smelled incredible. I’d eat at their little kitchen table, swinging my legs, watching how Graham’s mom laughed even when she was exhausted, how she’d dance with him while she cooked. It felt different there. Softer somehow. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I knew I liked it. When Dad came to pick me up, he’d wait in the car, engine idling — always polite when Laysha waved from the porch but never getting out. When Mom picked me up she usually came barreling in without knocking, carrying whatever the drive-thru had to offer, and we’d stay as late as we could on a school night or crash there. Mom would text Dad a simple “sleeping over” followed by a cascade of kissing emojis. Dad’s usual reply: a sad selfie and an “I love you.” Mom and Laysha’s conversations were always about the same three things — me and Graham, work, or my dad. They’d gossip like old pros, and I loved every second of it. One night Mom had invited Laysha and Graham over. I was sneaking into the kitchen on a mission for four cookies when I froze a few feet away, listening to them laugh at the counter. “I swear I could see him sweating while he just stood there awkwardly!” Laysha squealed. Tears were running down both their cheeks and Mom was gripping the edge of the counter like she might fall off the stool from laughing so hard. “He thought I was crazy for how excited I was about that free couch.” “Next time I see him I’m going to punch him or something. He’s so high on his horse it’s like he’s got a stick up his—” Mom cut herself off, covering her eyes between giggles. I stopped mid-mission, jaw open. Mom was talking about Dad. My dad. Her true love. These were things someone would say about their arch nemesis. “He’ll never know the amazing feeling of getting such a good deal,” Laysha said, smirking. “Sometimes I wonder what he’d do if all our money disappeared and we were stranded in the woods,” Mom said, voice soft and amused. I could see the little gleam in her eye from my spot on the floor. “I can just imagine his adorable clueless face.” “Sometimes Blake reminds me of him — that confidence with these totally clueless moments,” Mom added. “But then she reminds me of you, how her confidence just burns through, even when she’s not sure what she’s doing. You two are fun like that.” Laysha laughed. My chest did a little flip when she said I reminded them of Mom. I wanted to crawl out and kiss her. “Also, I can imagine Clinton in the woods, shirtless, chopping wood for a fire—” Mom’s voice changed and suddenly I knew I had to escape before I heard anything I couldn’t unhear about my father. I grabbed the cookies and ran, not caring if they caught me. Mom always had galas or award shows, and Dad had his business dinners—nights where all three of us would get dressed up and go eat fancy food and talk to fancy people. I’d stand beside Mom for photos, soaking in how everyone adored her, and next to Dad, who looked so proud just to be hers. For a while, it felt like we fit right in at those parties. The night of a gala always started the same way: Mom buzzing around the bedroom like she’d swallowed a motor, Dad quietly checking his cufflinks and sighing like he’d lost a battle he didn’t even know he’d fought. And me? I was stuck in the middle, trying to figure out how to be fancy without tripping over my own feet. Mom had this ritual. She’d tell me to sit while she fussed with her hair in the mirror, and I’d watch as her fingers turned her bright blonde strands into something that looked effortless, even though I knew it wasn’t. “Blake, don’t slouch,” she said, holding a hairbrush like it was a magic wand. “You never know who’s looking.” I tilted my chin up like a model and gave her a serious nod. “I’m practicing my celebrity walk,” I said. I tried to sway my hips just right, but my sneakers made an awful squeak against the floor. Mom laughed so hard she almost dropped her brush. “Celebrity walk, huh? Let me see that again,” she said. I strutted across the room with as much dignity as I could muster. Graham had nothing on me. Not even close. Dad peeked around the corner, expression neutral, but I could tell he was trying not to smile. He cleared his throat. “Don’t forget, elbows in. And shoulders back. You’re not a sack of potatoes, Blake.” “Thanks, Dad,” I said, giving him a small, exaggerated curtsy. “I’ve been practicing for years.” Mom laughed again, her blue eyes sparkling in the mirror. “You’ll do fine, baby. Just remember: people notice confidence more than perfection. And confidence is exactly what you have, plenty of it.” I felt a little swell of pride at that. Mom always made me feel like I could conquer the world in sneakers or heels. “I’m ready to make the paparazzi cry with envy,” I said, grinning. By the time we were halfway out the door, Mom had made sure my dress was sitting right, my hair wasn’t crooked, and I had at least three more fruit snacks than a normal person should. Dad opened the car door for Mom first, then me, then finally got in himself, briefcase in hand like it was some sort of shield. I slid across the leather seat and glanced at him. His tie was crooked, but his posture screamed control. Even when he wasn’t happy about something, he made it look like the world was still in perfect order. “I hope I don’t trip on the stairs tonight,” I whispered. “You won’t,” Mom said, straightening dads tie. “But if you do, remember to laugh. People love a girl who can laugh at herself.” I nodded, imagining cameras flashing, reporters leaning forward, everyone staring at my perfect fall. Yeah. I’d probably end up in the tabloids by mistake. And somehow, in that moment, standing between Mom and Dad, I felt like I could handle it all. The lights, the people, the fancy gowns, the way Mom’s heels clicked across the marble floors—I could handle it. Because I was with them. And as long as I had them, I could survive anything. Plus I was Blake Muin, someday I'd be one of the greatest actresses ever, right next to Reece Kingsly. One night, I found Mom lying in the grass in our backyard, her hair spilling out around her like melted gold. The sky over Santa Barbara was still brushed with pink from the sunset. I dropped down beside her. “Whatcha doing mom?” I asked. “Are you tired?” “A little,” she said, smiling. “But it’s the good kind of tired. The kind that means you did something you love.” The air smelled like orange blossoms from the trees Dad had insisted on planting because “good landscaping adds value.” Somewhere across town, on the other side of the hills, the Rodriguezes were probably finishing dinner, their laughter carrying out of a smaller, louder house. “Do you ever wish you weren’t famous?” I asked quietly. Mom turned her head toward me, eyes soft. “No. I just wish I’d learned sooner that fame isn’t the same thing as joy. Joy’s right here.” She tapped my nose. “And right there.” She pointed toward the house, where Dad’s shadow moved across the kitchen window. Then she took my hand and said, “Whatever you do, Blake, promise me you’ll love it. Don’t do anything because you think you have to. Do it because it makes you feel alive.” I promised, even though I didn’t really understand. I just liked how it sounded — like a secret you weren’t supposed to forget. Later, when Dad came out to find us both asleep under the stars, he sighed the kind of sigh that meant he was too happy to admit it. He carried Mom inside first. Then he came back for me. That’s the part I still remember best: the way his arms felt steady and warm, the way her perfume lingered in the air, and how, for a little while, everything in our world was perfect.