If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  When I arrive on the executive floor, I stop at the Bernstein brothers’ second assistant’s desk. The girl behind it looks friendly and seems like she might, just maybe, not call security on me before I finish making my plea for five minutes of a Bernstein’s time.

  The second assistant is cute and fresh-scrubbed Midwestern, not all plastic, like every other woman I’ve seen out here. I think she’s sporting her real hair color, and the only makeup she wears comes in the form of the tube of cherry ChapStick on her desk. She’s speaking into her headset while I approach, which gives me a couple of seconds to determine what I want to say.

  And that’s when I see it—my lifeline, my ticket in, my sign.

  When she disconnects, I point to her desk and say,“You’re reading my book.”

  Instead of getting the typical blasé oh-yeah-well-Brad-Pitt-and-I-share-a-pool-boy response, the girl actually squeals and leaps out of her seat. “Oh, my God, are you Mia MacNamara? I love you! My little sister turned me on to your books and I can’t stop reading them! I’m so excited to meet you! Hello! I’m Jasmine!”

  “Hold on,” I say.“You’re excited to meet me? Don’t you get, like, A-list movie stars in here every five minutes?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “You just missed Will Smith. Although he’s actually really cool, because he acknowledges us out here. But most of them are just empty suits. Actors, they just say the lines. I’m more impressed with people who write the stuff that makes them sound good. That might seem weird, but I just graduated from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and I did a ton of writing, so that’s what I’m into. Trust me, I’m an anomaly around here. Everyone else is a total star fucker.” Jasmine claps her hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to swear. Sorry! Terrible habit. So, anyway, did you have an appointment? I don’t remember seeing you on the schedule. I’d have noticed.”

  I give Jasmine the condensed version of my situation, and I tell her that if there’s any way I could get five minutes of a twin’s time without getting her fired, that she could potentially save my film from, if not obscurity, then at least a solid panning on Pajiba.com.

  “They cast Vienna Hyatt? As Miriam? Is that a fucking joke?” She slaps her hand over her mouth again. “Shit, I’ve got to stop swearing at work. Goddamn it, I did it again!” She pulls up the twins’ schedules and tells me, “I can get you ten minutes with Phil in about an hour.”

  “And that won’t get you in trouble?” I already love this kid, and I don’t want to jeopardize her job.

  “Oh, please.” She waves me off. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll blame it on Brittany, the first assistant. She’s a Bernstein niece, and she’s a total space cadet. She screws stuff up every day and everyone lets her coast. She just scheduled Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie in back-to-back meetings with the twins. I mean, are you kidding me? Who does that? But she’s Teflon and everything slides off her. She’ll probably run this place someday. Trust me, Mia, I’m all over this.”

  Jasmine puts me in the schedule and directs me to the waiting room down the hall after setting me up with a latte and a stack of magazines.

  An hour later, she comes to get me, and just as I get ready to walk into Phil Bernstein’s office, she whispers to me, “Do it for Miriam.”

  And then I prepare myself for the fight of my—no, our—lives.

  I don’t want to say I went Swayze all over the Bernstein brother.

  But I went Swayze all over the Bernstein brother.

  In my ten minutes, I managed to not only convince him to dump Vienna, but also to assign a totally new producer and start the whole casting process from scratch. He even promised to call in a favor from Kevin Spacey to do a cameo as Amos’s father.

  I’d like to say my powers of persuasion were top-notch and that I unleashed a little bit of my inner Ann Marie.173

  But the truth is, Mr. Bernstein’s daughters are huge fans, and they stopped talking to their dad the minute they found out Vienna had been cast.

  You know what? A victory’s a victory, even if it comes from a forfeit.

  The best part is, I get to do my own rewrites, and I don’t have to be on-site for the whole process. Mr. Bernstein is pulling a couple of producers who worked on the Harry Potter and Twilight films to head up Buggies, and I’m confident they’ll make it great.

  Did I mention I got Vienna fired?

  Yeah, that’s worth noting twice.

  I finally feel like my baby’s in good hands. And now I can go home to begin the rest of my life.

  Mac and I are picking up the last of the garbage from our housewarming party. Tonight was even more fun than our wedding reception, and that went on all night and well into brunch the next day.

  Everyone was here—all of our friends, my whole family, and even Ann Marie was able to make it out, although she’s presently passed out in my writing room. We offered her a regular guest room, but she said she wanted to sleep on the couch in “Jake Ryan’s bedroom.” I’m telling you, even though he was fictional, and despite the movie having come out twenty-seven years ago, you can’t negate the influence his character had on an entire generation of ladies.

  At one point in the night, we all went outside and poured out a little bit of our drinks in John Hughes’s honor, and then we came in to dance to the Pretty in Pink sound track. I could not imagine having a better time. Lulu—no, Amanda even stopped by, and she and Ann Marie became instant besties.

  I fear what this depraved pairing might bring forth.

  I’m just locking the front door when I see an odd flash of light outside. “Mac?” I call. “Come check this out.”

  Mac flips off the porch light and we both peer into the darkness. In the distance we see a car idling at the end of our driveway.

  “Mac, is that a . . . Bentley?”

  Mac cranes his neck to get a better view. “How about that? It is. Did you invite any latecomers who drive a Bentley?”

  I wave him off.“Pfft, I don’t know anyone who drives a Bentley. What, is Puffy going to show up at our housewarming? Kanye? A Kardashian? Be real. The only time I’ve ever even seen a Bentley is when Vienna used to—”

  “Speak of the devil.” Mac and I have been heading quietly down the driveway in the shadows and now have a much better vantage point of what’s happening at the end of our drive.

  “Is that her?”

  “You don’t recognize the hair extensions?”

  I’m not entirely surprised that Vienna’s showed up here. To say she was pissed about getting fired would be an understatement. Apparently she’d already gotten “Miriam” tattooed across the small of her back when she got the news. We’ve been expecting some kind of revenge but weren’t sure of the form it would take until now.

  Vienna’s standing outside of her car with a Dom Pérignon bottle, and it would appear that she’s created a Molotov cocktail of her own. We quietly observe her sticking a strip of cloth in the bottle, and we step back into the brush line while she lights it. Then, with all her might, she hurls it in the direction of our house.

  The problem is, we’ve got this big old black mailbox at the end of our driveway. Remember how our mailbox caused so much consternation in the neighborhood when we put up the beautiful red iron one? After we’d installed it, we shone an uplight on it so people could see it in the dark and they wouldn’t accidentally hit it with their cars on our winding street.

  But everyone threw such a fit over our tacky174 mailbox that in a fit of goodwill, we took it down and replaced it with the old, boring, big black box. Then we unplugged the light because it was causing everyone so much aesthetic distress.

  Vienna’s standing ten feet away from the mailbox, but because of its color and the late hour, it’s practically invisible. When she tosses her Molotov cocktail, she’s not, in fact, throwing it into all the dry brush surrounding the front of our house. Instead, what happens is that the bottle shatters when it hits the mailbox, and because she’s standing so close to it, she becomes covered in its flam
mable contents, which ignite when her lit cigarette falls out of her agape mouth.

  And that’s when we’re all taught a little chemistry lesson, although it’s Vienna who really learns that polystyrene hair extensions work as an ad hoc wick, and her entire head goes up in flames.

  Before Mac can jog back to the house to grab a hose,Vienna’s flunky immediately douses her with Diet Snapple and whacks her flaming do with the new Marc Jacobs hobo bag while Vienna sheds every inch of her flaming clothing. Then they both hop into her car and scream off into the night.

  “Mac,” I say,“I’m pretty sure we haven’t heard the last of Vienna.”

  “I suspect you’re right,” he agrees.

  Then I lean back into his arms. “Do you care?”

  “Right now? Not a bit.”

  “Want to know what’s funny?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “If ORNESTEGA taught us anything, it was to wear a full set of drawers before trying to set someone’s house on fire. Also? I bet Vienna would kill for a pair of Spider-Man underpants right about now.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  Now that our house is done and our neighbors’ hatred has morphed from active to dormant, I’m ready to enjoy every amenity this community has to offer.

  Huh.

  Somehow I thought there’d be more amenities.

  Is it possible that twenty-plus years of John Hughes movies built unrealistic expectations?

  Epilogue

  “Hello, sir, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Six months, to be exact. I know, I know; I meant to come, but I guess we’ve just been a little preoccupied. Mac’s been back at work for a while, and he got a big promotion, and the commute’s been making him crazy. Me? I’ve been busy working on a new book that I kind of love. It’s a departure in that I’m giving the Amish a little vacation for now and I’m writing more of what I know. This one takes place in a regular suburban high school.”

  I fiddle with the package in my hand and shift from foot to foot to warm up. There’s a ton of snow on my usual bench, so I don’t sit down. “I guess the big news is . . . we bought a house back in the city. Turns out once our place was finished we realized how bored we are in Abington Cambs. Seriously, they roll the streets up at eight p.m. around here, and I’ve got zip in common with the Ladies Who Lunch or the Ladies Who Life Time (Fitness). This would be an amazing place to raise kids, but it’s just not for us.

  “No, we’re not selling the place. My family plans to expand the business to the Midwest and they need a base of operations, so Babcia and Jessica and her family are going to stay in my house. So I’ll be around. Not as much, but I’ll stop by from time to time.

  “Anyway, I brought you a little something different today. I hope you like it. And because I can’t say it enough, thanks for everything, sir.”

  Then I place a copy of my new manuscript on the ground before I walk away.

  I’m calling it Sixteen Zombies.

  Acknowledgments

  Before I get to the thanking part, I have to apologize to the owners of the house featured in Sixteen Candles. This home (the outside, at least—haven’t been peeking in anyone’s windows) (yet) is nothing short of spectacular, and I’m sure the neighbors are lovely. Should this book cause people to drive by the place, then I’m supersorry, but my guess is, if you bought Jake Ryan’s house, you probably expect a few rubberneckers, yes?

  Anyway, a million thanks go out to my readers, who make everything possible! I hope you enjoyed reading my first foray into fiction as much as I did writing it.

  To everyone at NAL, I couldn’t be more grateful, particularly to my editor, Danielle Perez, who totally got it when I pitched this idea . . . a month before an entirely different book was due. Thank you for trusting my instincts. Much gratitude also goes to Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, Craig Burke, Melissa Broder, sales and marketing, and especially the art department for creating my favorite cover ever. And, of course, thanks to Kate Garrick of DeFiore and Co., who’s been with me from day one. (Seriously, six books? How’d we get here?)

  Big love to my own personal Breakfast Club—Stacey Ballis, Gina Barge, and Tracey Stone—and my Algonquin Round Table—Caprice Crane, Karyn Bosnak, Sarah Grace McCandless, Jolene Siana, and Amy Lamare—who inspired the teenage-Amishzombies-in-love bit. And to my Indian Wells Six-Feet-I’mPacing-It-Off Beach Buddies—Angie, Poppy, Blackbird, and Wendy—same time next year?

  Of course, nothing’s possible without Fletch. I’m sorry for all the times I confused you with Mac and got mad when you’d attempt a home repair. (But seriously, never buy one of those stupid lightbulbs again.) For the record, Fletch is actually quite handy, and yes, I’m willing to put that in print.

  The best part of writing this book was studying up on John Hughes and revisiting all his work. In particular, I found books by Susannah Gora, Jaime Clark and Ally Sheedy, and Thomas A. Christie to be not only full of insight but also fascinating. Also of note is the film Don’t You Forget About Me. These writers and filmmakers confirmed what I already suspected—that Hughes was truly a genius and his work will continue to influence generations to come. Thank you for not forgetting about him.

  1 Né John Brian MacNamara.

  2 He’s never anything but sweet to me, and I do my best to return the favor. He and I are like the Soviet Union and the United States during the Cold War: Whoever pushes the button pretty much sets our mutually assured destruction into motion. And like that nice pre–Ferris Bueller Matthew Broderick taught us in the movie War Games, the only way to win is not to play.

  3 Much like Jay and Silent Bob in Dogma, I didn’t learn that Shermer was a fictional place until years after I first saw the movies. However, it’s based on a real town, so I wasn’t too devastated.

  4 Ten points if you caught the Jeffersons reference.

  5 A Great North American Barkhound.

  6 Seriously, no, thanks.

  7 I don’t actually know if this is a real expression, but it sounds vaguely Canadian, much like Holmes is vaguely Canadian.

  8 And believe me, I’ve tried.

  9 Technically, we’re Libertarians, but when’s the last time they won an election?

  10 Mac’s expert marksman advice—turning the gun sideways to shoot works only in the movies. In real life it’s an absolute guarantee you’re going to a) miss and b) sprain your wrist.

  11 Try the feta cheese plate. You’ll thank me.

  12 I bet there are no drive-by shootings at all in Stephenie Meyer’s ’hood.

  13 The way I see it, I can have a Barbie collection or magnifying readers; I can’t have both. I choose Barbie.

  14 This isn’t gossip so much as it is fine, fine reporting from the folks at Us magazine.

  15 As per the March 26, 2009, issue of Star.

  16 My sorority crafted a lot of signs of the WE’RE PI-FIRED UP variety.

  17 And when did it stop being Kinko’s?

  18 Even though Mac would.

  19 Does this work as an expression? I had Ishmael say it to Mose in Amish Is as Good as a Mile. Later it occurred to me that pacifists might not study a lot of Vietnam War history, or engage in any sort of combat, even like punching a gangbanger in his smug face, for that matter. But come on, it’s no less plausible than vampires who won’t drink human blood.

  20 Damn you, Botox, for making my forehead so smooth and expressionless but mostly smooth.

  21 What, you thought I got all that crap done for vanity’s sake? Come on!

  22 Why, yes, Mac does make me watch a lot of Military Channel programming with him. How’d you know?

  23 Also known as the AC.

  24 I pity the fool . . . who disrespects dendrophiliacs.

  25 Fine, the Cambs isn’t technically located above the arctic circle, but it sure feels that way today.

  26 I have a PhD in HGTV.

  27 Wait, this is a really sad fantasy, isn’t it?

  28 And this is where the author breaks the fou
rth wall, noting that every book she writes has a nod to Mean Girls in it. What can Jen say? It was a really good movie.

  29 This was back when her shows were still trashy.

  30 Also hails from the Cambs.

  31 Screw her and her eighty-five-million book sales right in the ear.

  32 Knock it off!

  33 Ten points if you caught the Bowie reference.

  34 You know what? I’m too embarrassed to even finish that sentence.

  35 Read: boring.

  36 And they don’t ask any pesky questions about my research methods.

  37 Or Colorado.

  38 What, they didn’t?

  39 Mrs. Patel’s words, not mine.

  40 Okay, technically, we could, as my sales in Germany are currently through the roof. Seriously, I’m like the second coming of Hasselhoff over there.

  41 Can’t actually frown.

  42 Picture the Playboy Mansion, only with more ivy and less booty.

  43 Give or take a few kajillion hundred.

  44 Furniture and men.

  45 Kind of like RuPaul is a tad dramatic.

  46 Note to self: Subscribe to Elle Decor, like, yesterday.

  47 Now with twenty percent more plastic grapes!