With Emily, I got my ears pierced and spied on cute neighborhood boys (armed with her dad’s binoculars), learned to skateboard (sort of) and took driver’s ed. With Emily, I have sleepovers, get pedicures and talk about everything. With Emily, I feel normal.
I call her as soon as I’m in my room, and she answers on the first ring. “So which scene did you do? Was it a good one? Did you nail it?”
“The scene where he asks me out.”
“The one where he kisses you at the end? Aaaaaand?”
“When we got to the part where he grabs me, which by the way isn’t something Darcy would ever do, because he’s fully in charge of his emotions at all times—it’s his defining characteristic! I don’t think the screenwriter even read the novel...”
“Emma, you’re killing me. I’m dying. Spill.”
“No kiss. The director stopped us right before, and I guess they brought the next hopeful contender in.”
“Aw, crap. No fair.” She sighs, taking the loss personally.
“Yeah, kissing him would’ve been a nice consolation prize.”
“Emma, I told you, you’re getting this part. Are you ready to handle all the screwed up stuff in the script? Movies are never as good as the book, no offense. You can’t let it drive you insane.” Emily knows me so well.
“I can do it. I’m just worried that if I do this movie, I’ll be stereotyped as insubstantial and cute. I’ll never end up doing something significant.”
“At some point you’ll be in charge of your career, and you can do whatever you want.”
“When will that be?” I can’t help the whine that seeps into my voice.
“When you’re like forty,” she answers. “No doubt about it—by forty, you’ll be in complete control.”
I smile. “Night, Em.”
“Night, Em.”
Chapter 5
REID
After the last two auditions, I’m waiting for my car to be brought around and pulling my phone from my pocket to call my friend John when I get a text from Mom reminding me about dinner at 8:00. My first thought is how the hell to get out of it, but then I remember how she looked this morning when I said yes. I hit reply and type yep.
The valet zooms up in my Lotus, which I convinced Dad to let me buy a few months ago by telling him I would just get it when I turned eighteen if he said no. He hates the car, from the engine roar when I gun it to the stereo vibrating everything in the house as I pull into the garage, but above all, he hates the color—lemon yellow. He calls it a douche taxi. Last week I pulled into the drive when he was getting the mail, and as I walked up to the house he stared at the car and said, no inflection, “You’re keeping that thing at least a year.”
As he knew it would, that remark made me want to sell the f**king car immediately.
Dinner in two hours should be all kinds of enjoyable.
I might as well do some shopping—no sense in being home early. Rodeo Drive is closing down for the day, but I head over to Robertson and hand over the keys to another valet, wondering if valets actually drive my car as much or more than I do. Paul & Joe is open and nearly deserted, the sales clerks (both hot—gay guy, wispy blonde chick) hovering, waiting to be helpful. They exchange a look as I browse. Between the two of them, they probably generate interest from anyone between fifteen and fifty who walks through the door.
I grab a few funky shirts and a pair of jeans and request a dressing room from the girl. “Yes, of course, Mr. Alexander,” she says. Maybe someday I’ll hate it, but for now, I love being recognized. I’ve just pulled on the jeans when she comes into the dressing room with another pair in a different shade. Without a trace of apprehension at walking in on me half-undressed, she holds them out. “This is the newer wash. I thought you might want to try them, too.” I toss them onto the pile as her eyes rake over my chest. Turning to the mirror like I don’t notice, I button the jeans and pull on one of the vintage t-shirts.
“What do you think? Too dug-it-outta-Dad’s-closet?”
Her mouth turns up on one side and she shrugs. “If your dad was cool, then that’s in.” She bites her lip, lightly. “Let me see the other one.”
I pull the shirt off and step closer. “Hold it for me?” I can almost hear the p**n soundtrack starting up in my head, until my phone beeps—another reminder text from Mom about dinner. I reply that I’m on my way.
“So, Kaci,” I touch the nametag just over her breast, “I’ll take both shirts, and the jeans I’m wearing. I don’t have time to take them off right now.” My meaning is clear as I rip the tag off and hand it to her. “I’ll just wear them out, if that’s okay.”
When I leave, the discarded tag, her phone number written on the back in red ink, is in the bag with the new shirts and the jeans I was wearing when I came in.
***
I park next to Dad’s empty spot in the garage. Not a good sign; I hope he’s just late. As much as I’d prefer to pass on sitting across the table from him, I live in constant dread of having to watch the effect on Mom whenever he bails on her—which is often. Immaculada is perched on a stool in the kitchen, chin propped in her hand, watching reality TV. Everything on the stove is set to low. Waiting.
I’m afraid to ask, but I do. “Mom in her room?”
Her head inclines towards the master suite. “Sí, in her room.” Shit. I can tell by her tone what that means.
The sitting room off the master bedroom gives the impression of a cozy personal library, which is accurate, I suppose. Mom loves to read, or did at one time. The floor-to-ceiling shelves house an enviable selection of books and very few knickknacks or framed photos. I drop into one of two plush leather chairs; she sits in the other, an open book on her lap, an empty martini glass in her hand, her eyes unfocused on the darkened window.