A Short Story

As far as Charlie Castiglione was concerned, the pictures were the end of it— a souvenir to a brief, but tender episode of his waning youth. To the rest of the world however, the pictures were just the start of another devilishly delicious chapter in the sordid and salacious life of international pop-sensation, Serena Mendoza. Several months prior to the photos' release— when Mendoza’s penchant for falling into the arms of a few too many married men graduated from inconsequential quirk to ammo for every late night host— her publicist demanded she hightail it somewhere far removed from the prying eyes of L.A. and New York paparazzi.  

“Go to my brother’s college,” suggested Angelo Casarosa, Serena’s personal photographer and close confidant. “There’s nothing to do up there.” 

“Where is it?”

“Belport, Maine.”

Serena groaned. 

“Honey, it’s the one place in the world no one would ever find you.”

She groaned again, louder and with more nasally gusto. 

“Plus he’s president of an all-boys a cappella group. Plenty of parties and cute unmarried boys for you to play with.”

And so, quickly, quietly— and with the press being none-the-wiser— three-time Grammy award winner Serena Mendoza made her way to the Vacation State.

When Angelo’s brother, Nunzio, first announced to The Clifton College Crooners— or simply “The Crooners”— that the Serena Mendoza was to live in their shared house, the boys were elated. 

“Duuuude, we’re gonna party like… every night!”

“Yo, she better introduce me to Drake. I heard they’re tight.” 

“Can she stay in my room?”

While Nunzio explained that the purpose of Serena’s visit was for her to hide from prying cameras, Charlie Castiglione sat still as a statue in the corner. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Serena Mendoza (on the contrary, he’d secretly listened to her debut album nearly every morning in high school) it was more that for the next several weeks, the house the Clifton Crooners shared would be a hub of noise and distraction as the semester drew to a close and though not a complete square, Charlie Castiglione approached life with the precise order and overzealous discipline of a Navy SEAL. He was a member of the Clifton College Triathlete club and through fall, winter, and spring, kept a rigorous training schedule. Each morning, his alarm went off at 5:00a.m. for a 5:30 workout followed by a cup of black coffee and an ice cold shower. Afterwards, Charlie attended his morning classes, ate lunch with either the Crooners or the Triathlete club, and finished his coursework before attending evening rehearsal. 

Indeed, Charlie enjoyed staying busy. He came from a family of Sicilian immigrants who had come to America reeling from the losses of World War II. The imperativeness of faith, family, and above all else, discipline had been drilled into him since he could begin to understand words. So, when Serena arrived one dreary Sunday afternoon wearing black leggings, fluffy slippers, and an oversized Balenciaga sweatshirt, Charlie didn’t know what to make of her. The rest of the Crooners however, flittered around her— legs spread wide, eyes burning in boorish lust. 

“What do you even do here?” Serena asked, curling her legs beneath her. 

“Let’s go to Sam Diego’s,” Nunzio suggested. 

“What?”

“It’s a bar,” he answered. 

Charlie briefly wondered if she would decline, considering Nunzio had told the group that the purpose of Serena’s visit was so she could fly under the radar. 

“What’s his problem?” Serena asked,. 

It took a moment for Charlie to register that she’d been referring to him. Laying back in the sofa as he was, it was hard for him not to appear disinterested. 

“Ah,” Nunzio said, strutting over and placing a firm arm around Charlie’s neck and ruffling his hair with the other. “Don’t worry about Charlie. He just wants to get back to his books.”

“Well,” Charlie said after escaping Nunzio’s grip. “I do have some reading to— ”

“The bar sounds awesome!” Serena interjected. 

The room erupted in frenzied preparations for the evening and Charlie, annoyed at having his Sunday routine disrupted, slipped upstairs and closed his bedroom door behind him.

*

He did not see much of Serena over the next several days. The morning after the Crooners’ trip to Sam Diego’s, Charlie crept out of his room at 5:15 and found Serena and Nunzio passed out on the living room couch— each wearing the same clothes they’d been out in the night before. When Charlie returned from his 9:30 seminar, Nunzio was gone, but Serena lay sprawled on the couch, still fast asleep. Shaking his head in haughty disapproval, Charlie crept into the kitchen and put on some coffee. 

Later, when Charlie returned home after lunch, he found a figure wrapped in a gray duvet cover roaming the hallways like a disgruntled phantom. 

“Are you feeling alright, Ms. Mendoza?” 

“Ew, don’t call me that,” she answered. 

“It’s just late in the day, that’s all.” 

“When’s breakfast?”

“It’s 12:40.”

“It’s 12:40,” she parroted in a mocking tone. 

At this, whatever empathy Charlie had for Serena vanished. He knew he’d been right in assuming she was nothing but a spoiled Hollywood diva who grew up in a Long Beach (or was it a South Beach?) penthouse. She’d most likely never had to prepare her own meals or fold laundry for herself. These beliefs were affirmed later that evening at Crooners rehearsal as Serena continued to demand encore after encore. 

“Just one more,” she asked after each song, her voice juvenile and cloying. 

“What do you say, guys?” Nunzio asked each time. 

Serena pouted her lips. 

“P-wease,” she said, batting her eyes for good measure. 

Michael, the Crooners’ music director, gave an obliging nod, played each part’s starting pitch, and the group launched into a hearty reprise of “Build Me a Buttercup.” 

“Do you guys find Serena… petulant?” Charlie asked his friends the following day at lunch. 

Christopher, a tenor for the Crooners and Charlie’s closest friend, replied first. 

“Dude, what?” he asked. 

“I mean, did you think she was being annoying at rehearsal last night?” he asked. “Like when she was all like, ‘oh my god you guys, sing another song p-wease.’”

Unused to Charlie being so animated, Christopher raised a concerned eyebrow. 

“What the hell?”

“I’m serious,” Charlie said. 

“Bro, we hear you,” Jason, another Crooner at the table, said. “But she’s just having fun.”

Frustrated, Charlie leaned back in his seat and fiddled with the lettuce at the tip of his fork. He knew he held himself to almost too a high standard and that his obsession with order and diligence often led him to judge others a bit too harshly. Perhaps, he considered, it was time to turn a new leaf. 

While Jason and Christopher turned the topic of conversation from Serena to Call of Duty, Charlie pulled out his laptop and began to research the life and career of Serena Mendoza. She had been born in Florida— nearly a year before Charlie— but moved to California with her mother after her parents’ divorce. After watching her sing along to movie musicals in their living room, her mother spent a month’s rent money on singing lessons. At age twelve, Serena auditioned for America Sings: Kids Edition! with a rendition of “Over the Rainbow” that brought the judges’ panel to tears. By sixteen, she had become a regular judge on the show— being dubbed “America’s big sister” in the process. At seventeen, she’d landed her first recording contract and, at just eighteen, released her debut album. Now, at twenty-three, Serena Mendoza had already amassed 267 million followers on Instagram, won three Grammys, starred in two box-office hits, and married a basketball star whom she later divorce to run off with one of her married background dancers. 

“Yeesh,” Charlie muttered, slamming his laptop shut. 

*

At rehearsal the following evening, Charlie found himself at the piano during a break, watching as Serena sat with Nunzio. The pair of them were taking selfies and exchanging social media handles while Charlie thought about the information he’d learned about her the day before. All the contests, awards, and trials and tribulations of teenage stardom sounded exhausting to him and he wondered at her ability to survive it all. He remembered the girl from America Sings— the one who’d charmed the hearts of viewers with her simple quilted dress and homespun charm. There was a vibrancy in her eyes and a sense of pride that Charlie could see she’d been robbed of. Softly, so as to not immediately draw attention to himself, Charlie began to play a few mismatched notes on the piano.

Somewhere over the rainbow… 

After a half or minute or so, Charlie found the correct key and began to play the song his mother had taught him so many years ago. The same one that earned Serena the title of “America’s big sister.”

There’s a land that I’ve heard of, once in a lullaby… 

Curious, Charlie darted his eyes towards Serena. Though she and Nunzio had been playfully clinging on to one another, Serena’s attention had fallen on Charlie.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue…” she warbled, gliding gently toward him. “And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.”

The boys gazed in rapture as Serena’s wispy voice melded with the piano— Charlie’s fingers deftly sliding along each key as though it were made of paper thin glass. With each note Serena’s voice grew so strong and angelic that the room took on an almost holy atmosphere.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops a way above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me… 

The song reached its final chorus and no one dared utter a single word. 

“Holy shit,” commented Nunzio once the song had ended. 

The rest of the group vocalized their agreement. Serena smiled and placed a small, delicate hand on Charlie’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” she whispered. 

“You’re welcome.”

Charlie cast his eyes downward while Serena closed hers— a contented, peaceful look on her face. For the rest of the rehearsal, Charlie’s attention was entirely on her.

Later, as Charlie headed home with Christopher and Jason, he was happy to find himself walking just steps behind Serena, Nunzio, and several more seniors. Though the icy winds of Northern Maine made it difficult to hear, Charlie could just make out what Serena and Nunzio were saying. Apparently, Nunzio’s brother was going to come up for the weekend and Serena planned on making a big party of it all. While the idea of a party normally sent Charlie’s anxiety into a tailspin, an odd sensation of excitement came over him. 

“Hey, we should get a picture!” Serena said. 

Charlie’s face could have lit up the whole night sky. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

Serena turned and handed him her phone. 

“Do you mind?” 

Frowning, Charlie took the phone from Serena’s outstretched hand and took the picture of her and Nunzio. Without so much as a “thank you,” Serena snatched her phone and darted away. 

“Yikes, that was brutal,” Christopher remarked, shaking his head. “Absolutely brutal.” 

*

By the first weekend of Serena’s sojourn with the Crooners, word had begun to spread that the Serena Mendoza had graced Clifton College’s humble campus with her presence. Like flies on meat, students had begun to descend en masse to the Crooner’s home, hoping to catch of glimpse of the famous pop-star. 

“I thought she was supposed to be hiding,” Charlie remarked one morning as he watched two girls sporting Clifton Lacrosse sweatshirts snapping selfies on their front door. 

Whether Serena was hiding or not, didn’t matter. The underclassmen Crooners in an effort to boost their popularity on campus had made up their minds to throw a massive party and she was to be the guest of honor. 

“What if the cops show up?” asked a terrified freshman. 

“Dude, that would make us legends!” was the sole reply. 

Though it was too late to stop the party, the idea of it made Charlie shudder. The arrival of the Belport Police would not be a good look for Serena and the last thing Charlie— or any of the Crooners— wanted was to see their good name sullied in the press by something as trivial as a party. In spite of Charlie’s reservations, the party was perhaps handedly the grandest affair in the history of northern Maine, complete with all the decadence and debauchery befitting one of Hollywood’s most notorious divas. Couples writhed and gyrated to the defining thump of Serena’s music while rotating lights and disco balls turned the living room into a dizzying constellation of colors. Through the mire of beer, sweat, and various vapors, Charlie remained polite and accommodating, opting to spend a great deal of his evening third-wheeling with Christopher and his girlfriend, Kate, making conversation punctuated by awkward dance moves.

As midnight approached, the crowd grew more restless. While hundreds of Clifton students were crammed inside the Crooners’ house, the one person everyone wanted the most was nowhere to be found. 

“Do you know where Serena is?” a girl in pigtails and an abundance of Serena Mendoza-themed merchandise asked. 

Before either Charlie or Christopher could reply, the girl— moved by some bacchanalian spirit— screamed: “Best party ever!” 

Charlie, deciding he was much too sober, made a trip to the kitchen— where he knew Nunzio and the seniors kept the good booze. 

“Charlie! Figlio!” Nunzio shouted as Charlie entered the kitchen. 

“Padre!” Charlie answered. 

Helping himself to some whiskey, Charlie took his place by the seniors and their girlfriends who were immersed in a game of beer pong. 

“Hey, you know where Serena is?” Charlie asked. 

“Beats me,” Nunzio said, wiping beer off a ping-pong ball with his shirt. 

Preferring the quiet kitchen to the medieval melee down the hall, Charlie stayed put. As the clock approached the early morning hours however, the crowd grew restless and tribalistic chants of “Se-re-na! Se-re-na!” called from the living room. 

“Guess we better join the party,” Nunzio said. 

But no amount of chanting and cheering brought Serena into the room. By 2:00 A.M., students began to slowly stumble out the door, dejectedly discarding their homemade Serena Mendoza merchandise on the beer-covered floor. 

Deciding he too had had enough, Charlie said goodnight and wandered back to his bedroom. 

“You’re Italian, right?” Serena asked. 

“Jesus!” Charlie shouted, reaching his hand to his chest.

Serena sat on his bed, her eyes drenched. 

“Are you alright?” Charlie asked. 

“And you like to perform, right? Sing and play the piano?” she asked. 

“Um… yeah.”

“But you ended up normal.”

“Huh?” Charlie asked, closing the door. 

Before he could stop her, Serena rose and meandered toward his desk. She looked, Charlie observed, as though she were ready to perform. Her hair was done up in its usual sprightly ponytail and her face was marked with streaks of glittering, glossy makeup. He had seen this look everywhere for years: on billboards, TV ads, and magazine covers. If someone had told Charlie that this same face would one day seek shelter in his bedroom, he would have dismissed them as a crackpot.

“You’re boring,” she said. “But so lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

She traced her index finger along his bookshelf. 

“You wouldn’t get it,” she said, sitting down again. 

“I wouldn’t exactly say that you’ve been unlucky,” he began. “I mean, you’re talented. People all over the world pay hundreds of dollars to see you perform.”

Serena stared down at her sparkling silver boots. 

“People pay to see you guys,” she murmured. 

“Right,” Charlie answered. “But they’re paying two bucks to see a bunch of white guys sing Boyz II Men and Four Tops covers at Sam Diego’s. People pay to see you at Wembley Stadium.” 

Her lower lip quivered and she burst into tears again. 

“I’m sorry!” Charlie said, rushing to her. “I- I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She wiped her eyes and sniffed. 

“It’s not that,” she said. 

Charlie wanted to know why she was suddenly so interested in his life after mostly ignoring him all week. And for that matter, why in the hell did she care if he was Italian? Why was she so fascinated by his bookshelf? And why— of all things— was she in his bedroom in the first place? 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” was all he could manage to say. 

She turned and smiled at him. 

“You’re so sweet.”

Charlie remained quiet, letting the silence between them settle. 

“Where did you learn to play?” Serena asked. 

“The piano?” Charlie asked. “My mother got me lessons from a neighborhood friend when I was seven. There’s three of us— siblings, I mean— and mom wanted at least one of us to learn.”

He smiled at the memory. 

“Being the youngest, that was me,” he continued “She said it would kill my Nonna if at least one of us didn’t learn to play.”

Serena laughed. 

“Gotta love Catholic guilt.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “You Catholic too?”

“My mom’s Italian and my Dad’s Argentinian. You do the math.”

The speakers below continued to rattle the floor. 

“And what about the books?” she asked. 

“Huh?” 

“Why do you have so many books? Why don’t you study, like, business or something?”

Charlie shook his head. 

“You sound like my dad.”

She stared up at him, her expression pleading, imploring. 

“I’m the youngest, right?” he continued. “Of three boys— they all played lots of hockey and baseball. That’s a lot of driving all over creation to and from rinks and parks. Books were the only kind of entertainment that didn’t involve batteries. My brothers got Nintendos, I got books.”

He stopped, surprised at opening up so easily. 

“And they were kind of like my friends…  in a way. I didn’t really fit in as a kid. My brothers were athletic and I was the ‘smarty-pants.’ Books. Music. You know?”

She nodded and crossed her legs, flashing the briefest glimmer of a smile. 

“I understand,” she said. 

Charlie bit his lip, wondering if he’d overstepped a boundary. He wondered why he was so ready to open up to this girl. She didn’t really know him. Did knowing her— her music and her scandals— make it easier?

“Thank you for telling me that,” she said. 

He nodded. 

“So what book is your favorite?” she asked. 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve got all these books on the shelf, right? Which one do you like best?”

“Oh that’s easy,” Charlie replied, hopping up and darting toward the shelf. “This one.”

He presented Serena with a well-worn copy of Jane Eyre. 

“It’s all about this girl in Victorian England named, you guessed it, Jane Eyre. She lives with her really vicious Aunt and her two kids— kinda like Cinderella— anyhow, she goes off to this sad boarding school and her friend dies. Then she gets a job as a— ”

Realizing he’d let his enthusiasm get the better of him, Charlie stopped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. 

It must have been easy, Charlie thought, for her not to apologize. After all, she’d performed for royalty, presidents, and titans of industries. What did she have to be sorry for? 

“Maybe I should be more like you,” he said. “Not give a flying fig what people think of me.”

Her finger, which had been aimlessly tracing the spines of his books, ceased moving. 

“I’m sor— ” he began, realizing how terse he must have sounded. “I’m just saying that I… respect what you do and I think you’re really brave to deal with what you deal with. That’s all.”

Though he’d spoken off the cuff, he meant it. She was, he admitted, stronger than he was in more ways than one. 

“Thank you for being so nice to me,” she said. 

They were standing inches from each other now. 

“It’s getting late,” Charlie said. 

“I know.”

“But, I’m glad you’re okay.”

She smiled.

“Thanks.”

She lifted her palm to his cheek and smiled at him. He closed his eyes and shivered at the cold of her sweetly perfumed hand against his cheek. When their lips at last met, her hands wasted no time in fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, while he undid her hair, letting each silky lock cascade through his fingers. With tender gentility, Charlie lay her across the bed and moved to kiss her neck, but stopped. 

“I-I’m so sorry,” he said, breaking away. “If you don’t… I just thought…” 

Tears dripped down Serena’s cheeks. 

“It’s not you,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “It’s— ”

Her face fell into his chest, stifling her words. 

“It’s alright,” Charlie whispered, wrapping a gentle arm around her. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. 

Charlie felt a single tear fall onto his arm. 

“It’s okay,” he said, gently rubbing her upper back. “I’m… I’m here.”

*

When Charlie awoke the next morning, he found himself curled up on the carpet on the floor, momentarily wondering where he was. He turned towards the bed, but found it empty. Seeing that it was well after his 8:00a.m. wake up, Charlie grabbed his winter hat— a knit navy hat with a gray puff on the top— and hurried down to the kitchen. The Crooners’ house reeked of the previous night’s festivities. Half empty Solo cups lay strewn across the sticky floors while streamers and glittering Serena Mendoza-themed party favors covered the sofas and the shelves. Charlie poked his head in the kitchen and back in the living room, but there was no sign of Serena anywhere. 

“Hey.”

He turned. Serena stood in the hallway with several suitcases. 

“Hi.”

“My car’s coming soon,” she said. 

A pang of guilt washed over Charlie. 

“You don’t have to leave,” he said. “Sorry, if I— ”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Okay.”

He darted his eyes away. 

“I’m going to Miami,” she said. “Just gonna try to lay low with my mom and grandma.” 

Through the window, Charlie could see a shining black Suburban pull up to the backdoor.

“I just— I need to try being normal again,” Serena continued. “Tell Nunzio ‘thanks’ for me?” 

“Sure.”

“Is it alright if I take this?” 

From the front flap of a suitcase, Serena produced Charlie’s frayed copy of Jane Eyre. The thing was full of marginal annotations and tattered sticky notes— rushed and hurried thoughts jotted down because he felt he had to say something profound. 

“Of course,” he said. “Enjoy it.”

The car honked its horn, startling both of them. 

“There’s my ride,” Serena said. 

Charlie nodded, knowing trying to stop her would be a futile endeavor. 

“Can I help with your bags?” he asked. 

“Sure.”

He took two of her suitcases and followed her out to the car. 

“Thanks again,” she said. “For everything.” 

Charlie shrugged. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, tossing her bags in the trunk. 

“Yes you did.”

The driver opened the backseat door and asked Serena if she was ready. 

“Yes,” she answered. “Bye, Charlie.” 

“Goodbye, Serena.”

She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around him, warm and tight, before climbing into the backseat. Both resigned and bewildered, Charlie watched as the massive suburban wobbled out the gravel driveway and turned down the road out of sight. Exhausted by the events of the past week, Charlie ambled back into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom where he fell headlong into a deep, restful sleep. 

*

The Crooners wondered who’d taken the picture. Had another student taken it or had some paparazzo, armed with a long lens camera and a contact at TMZ, camped in the woods beside the Crooners’ house? Regardless, the photo was everywhere the following morning. The Cad in the Hat one headline read. Good Morning, Heartache declared another. Within days, everyone from Clifton students to entertainment news anchors ached with desire to know who this #mysteryman (as the internet had branded him) was. Within the Clifton Crooners, a serious debate rose over whose face remained obscured beneath a dark-colored hat. 

“That’s gotta be you, Nunzio.”

“I swear it wasn’t me, man,” he answered, throwing his arms up in the air. “It was probably just some rando who spent the night.”

As the Crooners, students, and internet sleuths deliberated over who the lucky guy was, Charlie kept his head down, relieved that most folks would never consider someone as bookish as him could be the man embracing the world’s biggest pop-star. Still, just to be on the safe side, Charlie tucked his navy blue hat away and purchased a new green one as a replacement. 

Eventually, the world completely forgot about the boy in the blue hat and headlines heralding catastrophe and other scandals took their usual precedence. By the time spring rolled into Belport, Maine, Charlie found himself saddened by the year’s end. The whole of spring term, he’d managed to wheedle his way out of his protective shell and attend social events with the Crooners. As Charlie returned several overdue books to the library on the last day of term, he noticed a colorful display over the circulation desk. Neatly stapled on a large pasteboard were the words “Books By the Beach” and beneath them, mounted on crisp construction paper, lay printed photos of celebrities reading on the beach. 

While the librarian collected his books, Charlie’s eyes narrowed on a familiar frayed copy of Jane Eyre. 

“Pop-sensation, Serena Mendoza enjoys a Victorian classic in Miami Beach,”  read the caption. 

A smile broke across Charlie’s face. 

“Think she’s just trying to look smart for the camera?” the librarian asked, seeing where he’d been staring. 

Charlie shook his head and placed his library card back in his pocket. 

“Not even in the slightest.”  

© 2026 Christian Papadellis. All rights reserved.

For inquiries, please email: cmpapadellis@gmail.com