M’s still going on about Tiffany but I’m not listening. Finally she looks at me and goes, “Are you okay?”
I slam my locker shut, look right at her, and go, “No. I guess I’m not.”
“Well what’s wrong?”
“In case you didn’t notice, you totally ditched me at that party.”
“I didn’t ditch you. You had to go home and I wasn’t ready, so I gave you the keys. What’s the damage?”
“I just didn’t think it was cool.”
“Are you serious?” She looks at me in shock and it makes me wonder if I’m overreacting. “I’m sorry, really. I guess I got a little caught up.”
I just shrug and start walking toward class and she follows me. “What happened to you yesterday?” I look over at her. “How come you weren’t at school?”
“I was home sick.” She looks away.
“What’d you have?”
She stops in front of the door and whispers, “A massive hangover. I didn’t get in until Sunday night and like, my mom was already home. It was a serious close call.”
“You were at Trevor’s that whole time?”
“We went everywhere. It’s like he knows every cool person, and every cool place in LA. You wouldn’t even believe the stuff we did.” She shakes her head and looks around the campus. “God, this place is such a dump. It totally sucks being stuck here after a weekend like that.”
“Did you sleep with him?” I ask, figuring she did, but still wanting to know.
“Yeah, and it was completely amazing. I think I’m in love.”
She gives me a searching look but I don’t say anything. I’m starting to feel like I’m falling further and further behind in the maturity race, and soon I won’t be able to catch up.
“Anyway, by the time I got home I looked pretty bad, and I didn’t expect my mom to be home. I thought they were at some doctor’s conference, but apparently she decided not to go ‘cause she’s leaving for some spa or something instead. So, I hope you don’t mind but I told her I was at your house.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“I’m sorry if you felt like I ditched you, really. I just thought it was a good solution. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
She’s giving me this sad look and I decide to just let it go. “Okay, forget it. You know I tried calling you but your mom answered.”
“She did? Shit!”
“Yeah, it was weird.”
“What did you say? Did you talk to her?” M looks panicked.
“I didn’t say anything. I hung up.”
“No way!”
“Way. But I felt bad about it afterwards.”
“I wonder what the hell she was doing in my room?”
“Who knows,” I say. “I’ve got bigger issues right now anyway.”
“Like what?”
I look at her and shake my head. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears but I hold it back with all my might. “I had it out with my dad last night. I went to his office. He’s not paying for college, end of story.” I move away from the door so some of my classmates can get in, and then I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and continue. “Lets face it, my grades are crap, I can’t swing a scholarship, and the only school that did accept me did so on a contingent basis, only if I could get my grades up, but now even if I do, I still can’t afford it. So I guess it’s just not gonna happen for me.”
“Well, you could always get a loan or something.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She’s looking at me with pity and I just can’t take it. “Listen,” I push past her, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll see you in class,” I say. But as soon as I’m around the corner I bee-line for the parking lot and get in my car.
I check my wallet. I just got paid so I’ve got three crumbled twenties, a fresh ten, a stained five, and two crisp ones. And since I filled up recently I should have enough gas to get me to LA and back.
Only my car won’t start. I turn the key in the ignition, nothing. I turn the key and bang on the steering wheel, nothing. I turn the key and bang on the steering wheel and scream every bad word I know, and still, nothing.
Well, that’s just great. The bell rang like five minutes ago and if I go to class now I’ll get in trouble for being tardy. And if I’m gonna get in trouble then I may as well go all the way and get in trouble for truancy. So I sit in my turquoise blue Karmann Ghia and start crying. And after a few minutes of that, I wipe my nose on my sleeve and look in the rearview mirror and I look even worse than I imagined. So I grab a faded, red bandanna from the glove compartment, spit on it, and wipe the supposedly waterproof mascara from my cheeks. I know it sounds gross, but what was I supposed to do?
So then, just to be a glass-half-full kinda girl, I turn the key again, and the engine starts. So now that I look like crap, with makeup and saliva smeared across my face, my car decides to take me to LA. That’s the kind of karma I have.
I’ve never been to LA by myself, and it feels a little weird to be navigating the freeways alone. But the sun is shining hot and bright and I roll both windows down so I can feel the wind rushing around me, almost like in M’s convertible. And even though my car is an old clunker, it’s got a really great stereo system that I saved up for. So I insert that Nelly Furtado CD that I love, the one that has that song about being like a bird and flying away, and since I know all the words to all the songs I sing along at the top of my lungs, all the way to LA. And it feels really good to be young and free like this. It’s almost like with each spin of my wheels, I get farther and farther from my troubles. Like I can just drive straight into my future and leave all the bad stuff behind.
I go to the sandwich shack. I’m not even hungry but it’s what we always do. When the cute guy behind the counter sees me, he gets all happy and looks immediately to my right, then left, then over my shoulder, frantically searching for M.
“It’s just me today.” I shrug, and he definitely looks disappointed. “Um, can I get a bottle of water?”
“Yeah. Hey, how’s your friend?” He’s trying to act nonchalant, but just asking about her has got him all lit up.
“She’s fine. She’s perfect.” I give him a dollar fifty, then I go find a place to sit.
The same old cast of characters is out today, the hippie girl who sells colorful, blown-glass bongs, the creepy magician with the extra-long sleeves, and those fake henna tattoo people. I did that once like a year ago. The actual tattoo faded in a day, but the tribal band lived on in the form of a nasty rash for about a month.
I sit on the concrete bench and close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of the sun beating down on me.
I’m in Marrakech. The desert heat is unrelenting, but I’m dressed for it in a breezy, sheer, caftan, and those little pointy slippers that are made here in Morocco. My hair is pulled back into a complicated twist, and my eyes are shielded by my celebrity-size, shiny, black, Chanel sunglasses. I rise from my luxurious divan and walk out into the courtyard. I remove my caftan and let it fall to the ground, revealing my perfect nakedness. Some of the houseboys stop working and stare, but I ignore them, as I walk to the edge of the pool and dive in a perfect arc. I glide underwater to the other side, where Connor is waiting . . .
When I open my eyes that crazy iguana man is standing right in front of me, blocking my rays. Jeez, he’s like the cruelest reality check imaginable.
“Wanna pet the iguana?” He smiles at me, but his pupils look crazy.
“Um, no thanks.” I try to scoot back without being too obvious about it. He has a weird smell.
“It’s just two dollars,” he says.
“What’s just two dollars?”
“To pet the iguana!” He’s practically yelling at me now.
“Um, yeah, well, no thanks. I really don’t want to pet him.” I take a sip of my water and look around nervously.
“Suit yourself,” he gives me a look like I’m missing out on a huge opportunity and turns to walk away.
And even though h
e creeps me out, now that he’s leaving I’m reluctant to let him go, so I say, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Maybe.” He looks at me expectantly.
“What do you do?”
“What?” He squints at me and his eyes contain so much red I can’t tell what color they’re supposed to be.
“I mean, I see you here all the time and I’m wondering what it is that you do. Do you work here?”
“Yeah, yeah, I work here.” He raises his eyebrows and smiles.
“Well, where do you work?” I ask. I really am curious.
He starts pointing and twirling, “Where do I work?” he says. “Right here, and over there, and down there, and back there. I distribute happiness.”
“You what?” I give him a skeptical look.
“I distribute happiness!” he says it slowly like I’m the moron, not him.
“You mean, by letting people pet your lizard?”
“That’s one way.” He nods, seemingly pleased that I’m catching on.
“Are you happy?” I don’t know why, but I feel like I have to know.
“Happier than you,” he says.
“How would you know?”
“Because you’re lost, and I’m not.” He says this with such certainty, that it really pisses me off.
“Yeah well, you never leave the boardwalk, so how could you get lost?” I give him an ugly look.
He shakes his head. “You’ve got to find your way, before it’s too late.”
“Oh yeah, like you did? I mean, where do you live?” I look down at his disgusting, bare feet. “And where are your shoes?” I don’t know why but he’s making me feel really defensive.
He looks down at his thick, nasty, yellow toenails and laughs. “Life is a journey. This is mine.”
He’s standing there laughing but I can tell he pities me. The iguana man feels sorry for me! I finish my water and stand up carefully, because I don’t want him to see how much he’s upsetting me. “Okay, well, nice meeting you,” I say, waving my hand in the air.
And as I’m walking away I hear him yell, “We’re not so different you know. You and me, we’re the same!”
When I get to my car I lock the door and grip the steering wheel and try to calm down. I scan my side- and rearview mirrors watching him wandering aimlessly, up and down the boardwalk. He walks the same walk every day, the miles just adding up but he’s always here. He’s putting all his effort into going nowhere. And I wonder if he’s right. If we really are the same. Like, maybe that will be me someday, some big, weirdo, lizard chick, wearing a fake Versace suit and stilettos, with some funky reptile shitting all over my shoulder. It’s so hard for me to imagine my future that it seems like a real possibility.
I shake my head and refuse to think like this any longer. Then I dig my cell phone out of my purse and call Connor. The moment he answers I panic and nearly hang up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Connor? It’s Alex.”
“Alex, hey. What’s going on?”
“Um, nothing. Um, well, it’s just that I’m in LA and I thought I’d call and say hey.” Oh god, I sound like a total retard.
“You’re in LA? Are you with M?”
“No, it’s just me.”
“Brilliant! Why don’t you come by?”
“Now?”
“Well, no. Not now. I’m wrapping up a little business. How ‘bout in a couple hours, say around six?”
“Okay.”
“Listen, even better. Meet me at Harry’s. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes,” I lie. I think it’s in Santa Monica but I’m really not sure, and I don’t want him to know that I don’t know, ‘cause Harry’s is one of those places where you’re just supposed to know where it is.
“Great, we can grab some dinner then go see this band I might sign.”
“Okay, Harry’s at six.” I look at my watch. I’ve got three hours to figure out where it is.
I put my car in reverse and glance at myself in the rearview mirror. I really need to find a makeup counter.
So I go to the LA location of the store where I work ‘cause all I have to do is show my employee ID card and I can get a 20 percent discount. When I walk in I go right past the girls in those creepy white lab coats, past the ones caked in overpriced French makeup, and straight for those club kids working behind the cool counter.
I plop myself onto some tall awkward stool, smile at the Marilyn Manson wannabe wielding a powder brush and say, “Help!”
“Hmmmm.” He holds my face up to the most unforgiving light and asks, “So what are your makeup goals?”
Goals? Is he kidding? I don’t even have life goals, much less cosmetic ones. “Well,” I begin, “I need to look nineteen, and I need to look way better than I do right now. Maybe a little like Gisele Bundchen? Is that possible?”
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Gisele? Negative. I’m thinking for you a combination Betty Paige meets Liv Tyler.”
“Have at it!” I say facing the light again.
One hour and several layers of makeup later, the only thing Betty, Liv, and I have in common is dark hair and a smoky eye pencil he swore he once sold to Liv’s dad. But I scraped all my money together anyway and bought the pencil, the lipstick, and some powder, and now I have just enough left over for some new underwear.
I need the new underwear because I’ve decided I’m going to sleep with Connor. I figure if I’m gonna be a bad girl and ditch school, then I may as well be a really bad girl and lose my virginity. I mean, I think I’m finally ready. I pretty much know what to expect.
One day, back in like, fifth grade, I was peeking around my house, looking for some lost earring. I was really tearing the place apart, looking under beds, inside cupboards, everything. Well, under my parent’s bed I found some creepy sex book. You know, the illustrated, how-to kind with captions and hairy armpits? I read that thing from cover to cover, trying to ignore how ugly the participants were drawn. I mean, I committed that book to memory, and it’s a good thing too, because once, after the divorce, I went looking for it and it was gone. Either my dad took it with him, covertly stashing it under his arm, or my mom threw it out, vowing to never, ever, have that sort of illustrated sex again.
So I end up with a black lacy thong, which is a far cry from my usual pastel florals that my mom buys for me in three-packs. In the trunk of my car is a strapless black dress and some high-heeled sling backs that belong to M. So I go back to the parking lot, grab my stuff and take it into the department store bathroom and change. When I walk out of the stall I swear I don’t look anything like the virginal, truant, high school senior that I am. Then I dial four-one-one on my cell phone and get the address to this Harry’s place.
Chapter 15
Well, it’s not in Santa Monica like I thought so I’m really glad that I didn’t mention that to Connor. It’s in Century City, which is a part of town that I’m not too familiar with because it’s mostly all corporate and stuff so there’s really no reason for me to ever go there.
So I’m driving down Century Boulevard and I’m wondering how long it will be before the school sends a cut card to my house, and if I’ll be able to retrieve it before my mom can get her hands on it. And then I wonder why I even care if she sees it since there’s not much she can do about it anyway. I mean, I can’t see how it really matters since I can’t go to college now because of my grades and my dad and all.
But you know what? Screw college! I mean, maybe I really, like deep down inside, maybe I don’t really want to go. Maybe that’s why I’ve been carrying on like this, you know, so like, there’d be no choice to make. And who says I have to go anyway? Who made that rule? Plenty of people have skipped out on college and have done really well. For instance, look at Richard Branson! He didn’t even make it out of high school and look what he’s done! He’s worth billions of dollars and has even been knighted by the Queen of England (which means people have to call him Sir). And now that I’m hanging ou
t with Connor and stuff, I’m gonna get all the real-life connections and experience that you can’t get from some stupid college dorm room or textbook. I mean, think of all the big-time people Connor probably knows from being in the music industry on two different continents. And who knows where that will lead? The chances of ending up somewhere really great are almost guaranteed, and I’ll probably even get there faster than all those losers who waste four good years and more going to school.
When I see the sign for Harry’s I pull over and park on the street because I don’t have much cash on me and I don’t want to waste whatever’s left on valet parking.
I walk into a room that’s so dim it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. The bar looks just like it did in the picture I saw in a “Hip Hangouts” article in Instyle magazine, all dark wood and big mirrors. I don’t see Connor anywhere, but I grab an empty stool and squint at the multicolored chalkboard drink menu. They have like fifty different kinds of beer but I don’t want to order that because it makes me bloated, and naked and bloated is not a good combination. I don’t know enough about wine to even attempt that, so I think about playing it safe and just ordering a club soda with lime, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror on the wall in front of me, and I don’t know if it’s the dim lighting or what, but I decide on a cosmopolitan. I’ve never actually had one before, but if it’s good enough for the cast of Sex and the City it’s good enough for me. I mean, I’m wearing new makeup and a thong, surely I can pull this off.
So when the bartender says in an English accent, “Can I help you?”
I go, “I’ll have a cosmopolitan, please.”
Then he looks at me closely and says, “I’ll need to see your ID.”
And I break out in an immediate sweat. I guess there’s a big difference between faking nineteen and faking twenty-one. He’s giving me this all-knowing stare as I unzip my Hello Kitty purse, which right now looks not at all hip but entirely juvenile. As I’m fishing around for my matching Hello Kitty wallet my hands are shaking and I’m contemplating whether I should really go through with this, or just ditch this plan and order a Shirley Temple, when Connor walks up and goes, “Alex! You look brilliant!” And then he hugs me and kisses me and says, “I see you’ve met Simon.” And then he slaps hands with the bartender and says, “Bring me a beer, and get Alex anything she wants.” Then he puts his arm around me and goes, “I’ve got us a booth in the corner.”