Carter's Big Break

by Brent Crawford

  “Ever ridden on axle pegs?” I ask Hilary.

  She smiles and says, “Zac-Michael has a Ducati; I’ve been on the back of that.”

  I look down at EJ’s ratty old BMX that he leaves out in the rain, and say, “Pretty much the same thing. We may go a bit slower, for safety, but there’s no better way to take in the sights, and it’s a hell of a calf workout.”

  She climbs on and grabs my shoulders as we get rolling. I’m pretty nervous that I’ll crash her into the ditch, but she’s ridiculously light. I wouldn’t even notice her back there if she wasn’t giggling and yelling, “This is so much fun!”

  Zac-Michael and his Ducati can suck it!

  I try to think of questions, but the only thing I can come up with is about me, so it probably doesn’t count. “Do you think I look like one of the Wienus Bros?”

  “God, NOOO!”

  “Jeez, no need to be rude—”

  She replies, “You’re way cuter and about a foot taller.”

  “I’m taller than the tallest Wienus?”

  “Yeah, he’s about five foot three.”

  The parade of Escalades is rolling along with us at a blazing three miles an hour and trying to choke me out with exhaust. I wish the photographer would stop zipping by us. The windows of the SUVs are tinted, but I can still see my boys flipping me off in there. I’m pretty busy with the pedaling, but I find the focus to fire questions back to Hilary and answer her when she asks what I know about Ms. McDougle and the Saur mansion. She seems pretty interested in Merrian and my friends and how we live. I tell her that she seems like one of those Nat-Geo chicks who goes into the jungle to study the monkeys. I try to explain what I know about my world . . . which isn’t much, as it turns out. I’ve never really thought about the reasons we talk the way we do or act how we do or why my dad wants to build his own deck as opposed to hiring a construction crew. I have no idea. I’m even more worthless when it comes to the female questions. “Girls around here are really a mystery to me, but you should talk to Abby. I think she’s going to be your stand-in.”

  She replies, “Cool. Is she your girlfriend?”

  I tell her that she was, and Hilary squeezes my shoulders before saying, “Her loss.”

  I forget how to ride the bike for a second, but then I’m back. She even wants to know where I get my underwear, and I have to tell her, “I have no idea. New ones just show up in my drawer every once in a while.”

  After about twenty minutes, I’m sick of the inquisition and feeling the Pilates workout in my legs. I’m happy to be rolling up to the Grey Goose security shack and not having to sneak in through the golf course, like usual. The lead driver talks to the old guard in the booth and he waves us all through, but stops the paparazzi motorcycle. I follow the lead Escalade past the awesome clubhouse and the diving boards and swimming beach. Everyone is staring at us as we roll by. I’d like to keep going to the rope swing, but about halfway around the lake I see a gang of crappy cars and C. B.’s Ferrari in the driveway of a super-modern house and hear music blasting. I see that my parents have lent my sister the Accord, because it’s parked beside the lake (the bumper is actually underwater). The entire roof of C. B.’s house is a deck that overlooks the water, and it’s filled with high school kids. The SUVs slow to a stop and the doors open. I hit the brakes and Hilary steps off of the pegs, laughing. “You weren’t kidding about the calf workout.”

  “Pretty fun, yeah?”

  She smiles and says, “Absolutely.”

  I look up to the roof deck and see two hundred eyes peering down at us. A guy’s voice yells, “Carter’s a tool!” and then a girl pukes over the railing, almost hitting the Ferrari.

  Reluctantly, I lean the bike against a retaining wall and sigh, “So, this is a high school party.”

  She grabs my hand and says, “Let’s do it.”

  You can tell Matilda and her mom don’t want her to go inside. But it’s for her work, so they allow her a few feet of freedom, for research sake, and hope that the monkeys don’t throw too much crap at her.

  EJ and Nicky walk in ahead of us, but everyone is gawking at Hilary. She squeezes my hand like a little kid who’s just entered a scary place, but the house is beautiful. She whispers in my ear, “This place is straight out of Dwell magazine.”

  I nod like I’ve got a subscription to this magazine I’ve never heard of. There are big awesome paintings everywhere and sculptures on stands. It makes me nervous to think about my past experience with high school parties and whole houses getting torn apart by drunk dickheads, but the walls are intact, so far. I’m staring at a statue of a man’s head with a hole drilled through it, and trying to figure out what it means, when I catch my sister looking at me. She points to Hilary and angrily mouths the word, “Focus!”

  There’s a staff of people cleaning up after everyone, and we’re told that there’s a bar and a chef working on the rooftop grill. All of the kids are staring at us as we ascend the stairs. I can see the redness in Hilary’s cheeks and feel how uncomfortable she is. I try to think of good questions, but all I come up with is, “Is this like an L.A. party?”

  Sadly, she says, “Yeah.”

  We’re headed toward the railing to check out the awesome view of Grey Goose Lake when I feel Abby’s tractor beam being fired at me. I turn and lock eyes with her. Seeing me standing here, holding hands with the girl who got her part in the movie, seems too much for her to deal with. Tears fill her eyes, and she retreats down the stairs.

  I try to let go of Hilary’s hand, and say, “I’ll be right back.”

  But she won’t release my digits, and demands, “No! You can’t leave me, Carter.”

  I see Abby’s ponytail disappear into the house, and I give Hilary a forced wink.

  C. B. weaves his way over from the bar and greets us with hugs. “Good, you two are getting along?”

  Hilary seems to relax for a second and tells him how much fun she had riding out here, and I tell him about Pilates being worse than CrossFit. He stops a waiter and asks what we’d like to drink. Since Hilary is studying me, she waits to see what I’ll order, and I know it would seem cool to ask for a beer, because everyone else is boozing, but I’m dying of thirst, so I ask, “Do you guys have any Gatorade?”

  C. B. smiles, and Hilary asks for a Diet Coke. The waiter goes to hook us up, and C. B. wants to know if I’ve seen Ms. McDougle. He seems disappointed that I haven’t, but he better hope she doesn’t show up and find all of these high school kids drinking at his house, because she’ll bust his ass. But I don’t want to sound like an after-school special, so I keep it to myself. A few girls have asked Hilary for her autograph, and she poses for a bunch of cell-phone snapshots. The party keeps getting bigger and bigger, and everyone is just watching her . . . except her mom, who’s settling in with her third martini. The makeup ladies are doing shots with Nick Brock and Lynn. I’ve only known Hilary for a few hours, but I really like her, and I know that she’s a superstar, but I kind of feel sorry for her. She keeps squeezing my hand tighter and tighter. When I look down at her kung-fu grip, she tries to play off her discomfort with a fake smile. I know that she just wants to blend in here and study everyone else for her character, but it seems kind of impossible, so I ask her, “Hey, do you wanna do somethin’ cool?”

  She nods, and we slowly work our way back down the stairs. “Do we have to tell your entourage where we’re going?” I ask.

  She gives me an ornery look and says, “Let’s not.”

  I glance around, but don’t see Abby anywhere, and can almost feel Matilda’s finger gun pointing at the back of my head as we cut through the kitchen and duck out a side door. We run around the house and surprise Nutt, who’s peeing onto a fancy bush. I give him a push that sends his legs into the urinated branches.

  He cries, “Damn it, Carter!”

  I yell back to him, “Sorry, dog, I’m trying to show Hilary how we roll!”

  None of the Escalade drivers are paying attention, so I grab EJ�
��s bike, and she jumps on the pegs like she’s been doing it for years. As we roll out, her mom yells down from the roof deck, “HILARY, where the hell are you going?”

  I squeeze the brakes, but Hilary orders me to keep pedaling, before yelling back, “We’re just going to go do something cool!”

  Her mom exclaims, “WHAT?!” as I weave through the bottleneck of illegally parked cars. Matilda rushes out the front door as the lead SUV fires to life. She jumps in the passenger seat, and I hear the horn blast as the driver finds his fat-ass Escalade unable to follow my sleek BMX.

  Hilary is squealing with delight and jerking my shoulders all around.

  I yell, “Don’t make me wreck. I’m in enough trouble as it is!”

  We zip around the lake and cut across a footbridge that leads to the golf course before I dip off the cart path and narrowly miss getting whacked by an old lady about to tee off. We angle onto the wooded trail that leads to the rope swing. We hop off the bike, and she follows me down to the water’s edge.

  I doubt she’ll think this is as cool as I do, but I strip off my shirt and pick up the old knotted rope. I trek backward up the small incline, jump as high as I can (not that high), and swing out over the lake. I wait till the last minute before I release, spin around, smile at her and yell, “WHOOOAHH!!!” before I splash into the cool lake and yell, “YEEESSSS!!!” under the water. I come up for air and find Hilary giggling on the bank.

  “You wanna try?” I ask as I climb out. She strips down to her bikini (thank you!) and takes the rope from me. She’s smiling from ear to ear as she steps back a few feet. You can see her rib bones as she leaps into the air and glides out over the water with a gleeful scream. For just a second I feel like such a pimp for bringing her here and showing her something so cool and out of the ordinary . . . but that second passes. The rope reaches its climax and she does not let go. I guess I wasn’t specific enough with the instructions. I saw this happen to a younger kid last year, and it was not pretty. The rope is headed back to the tree whether you’re attached or not. And bark is not as soft as it looks. Her glee turns to terror as she sees the thick trunk getting closer and closer.

  “Release!” I order, but she’s got that Pilates-kung-fu grip in her fingers and a deer-in-headlights look in her eyes.

  Just before she smashes into the tree, my feet leave the ground. I bury my shoulder in her tiny waist and blast her away from the tree. My football coach would have been proud of the form tackle, but horrified at who I delivered it to. Hilary yells out a painful, “Ouhhhh!” and lets go of the rope so we can crash into the muddy bank. I’m lying on top of her as she’s convulsing in the slop.

  At this point my debate is, Would it be faster to carry her back to C. B.’s house, or leave her here while I ride over there and call the ambulance?

  But I’m super relieved to find that she’s actually laughing.

  “Oh my God, I’m such an idiot!” she cackles. Her face and hair are all muddy, and she’s rolling around.

  I sit up and chuckle. “No, it happens to the best of us. Are you okay?”

  I stop laughing (and breathing) when she sits up. Her swimming suit has come . . . ajar. It’s twisted around and both triangles have moved three inches to the left. . . . Neither one is doing its job anymore.

  She’s oblivious to the peep show as she giggles. “My mother would have killed me!”

  “Uh . . . uuum . . .” I say, motioning to her chest.

  “This mud is probably good for your skin,” she adds, smearing it onto her cheeks.

  I hear a rustling in the woods, but don’t look away from her chest as I mutter, “Hey, um, your, your boobs are out.”

  “What?” she asks, and then looks down before busting out laughing again.

  I try to make her feel less embarrassed. “I h-h-hate it when that happens!”

  I close my eyes and try to take a mental picture of what I just witnessed so I can reflect on it later and brag to my boys with great detail.

  When I open them, I expect to see her bikini restored to its original position, but it’s not. It is now on the ground next to me, and a ninety-six-percent naked Hilary Idaho dives into the lake!

  No need for the mental pictures, because my boys will never believe this. She swims around, and I hear that same rustling in the bushes. I’m waiting for Ashton Kutcher to bust through the leaves and tell me I’m being “Punked!” or some kid is coming down to use the rope swing and is about to get the shock of his life! She dips her hair back into the lake and steps out onto the bank. A clicking, cracking sound is coming from somewhere, and I just know someone is coming, so I extend my hands to cover her exposed breasts.

  “Sorry, sorry, uh, G-G-Grey Goose isn’t that kind of lake, I don’t think.”

  She doesn’t freak out about my hand placement, but simply explains, “Carter, I swim like this all the time in France. No tanlines.”

  “Well, that does make sense, but uh, w-w-we’re a long ways from France and I think people are coming.”

  She just laughs. “My breasts are all over the Internet anyway. . . .”

  “They are? I haven’t seen ’em.” (Liar.)

  “You’re seeing them now.”

  “No, I’m not! I’m blocking them, see? And I-I-I’m not like an expert or anything; I’ve only felt one boob . . . a pair, I mean . . . One girl’s breasts is all that I can draw on for my research, but yours feel pretty real.”

  Annoyed, she responds, “That’s because they are.”

  “Oh, I just heard . . .”

  “Yeah, I know what you heard, but it’s not true, like most of the crap they print.” She seems annoyed that I’ve brought her back into the world she’s trying to escape. “I thought you didn’t read the tabloids.”

  “I don’t. I just heard that. Does anyone actually read them?”

  She places her hands over mine (because I’m still cupping Hilary Idaho’s boobies!) and asks, “Would you prefer it if I put my top back on?”

  I cannot believe what I’m saying when I sigh, “Yes.”

  Once her breasts have been reluctantly released and put away, we start having a good time again. She tries the rope swing another time and doesn’t fly quite as high, but she does let go at the right time and enjoys it a lot more. Who wouldn’t? When she comes to the surface, she squeals, “Oh my God!!! That’s like the best drug ever!”

  I say, “Hells yeah it is!” but I don’t think she’s talking about Advil. I try to show off with a flip, but bust a SMACK, instead.

  She laughs at my pain and goes again. She screams, “It’s like flying!” in midair.

  I’m a lot stronger this summer from working out, but I can only do about ten swings before my grip is shot. Hilary is wicked buff from doing Pilates since birth, so she’s unstoppable. She starts doing gainers in no time. I give her a boost so she can reach higher on the rope, and my hand is totally touching Hilary Idaho’s butt! For some reason, it’s not really that hot. It’s not like I’m grabbing a dude’s butt, but I’m not that attracted to her. Probably because there’s no chance of her being into me, or I’m turned off by her ribs sticking out. We’re having fun, though, so I try not to worry about it. We swing off of it together a few times and swim around for a bit before I climb out to take a break. She’s floating out in the water, staring up at the sky (her boobs are real . . . and buoyant).

  She softly says, “I like it here.”

  I reply, “That’s because you’ve got a great tour guide.”

  I’m not sure if she heard me, because she asks if I’ve ever been to Hawaii.

  I just laugh. “The only flying I’ve ever done is here.”

  She raises her head and looks at me, so I clarify. “I’ve never been on an airplane.”

  She makes a face of pity and says, “Well, I went last year with some friends, to party. It was me and the Wienus Bros, the Molsen Twins, Tito, and a bunch of other kids. We were staying at this private villa and we had champagne and lobster out on this big terrace o
verlooking a perfect blue lagoon. There were these local boys, a bit younger than us, swinging out into the water on this old rope, and they seemed to be having so much fun. I wanted to go over and hang out with them, because there we were, celebrities, paying all this money to have the best drugs and food, but we weren’t having half as good a time as these kids who’d just tied a rope to a branch and were splashing around in the water together. Zac-Michael called security, and they shooed them away and cut down the rope. It made me so sad when he did that. He couldn’t stand to see ‘nobodies’ enjoying themselves, and that’s disgusting. I had other stuff going on. My dad had just left for New York and he didn’t tell us when he was coming back, so that may have caused it. The third Princess Journal was going down in flames about that time, but it was the look on those boys’ faces that pushed me over the edge. They were like, ‘Who do you think you are?’ and I couldn’t deal. I got so wasted that day, and I stayed wasted. We got kicked out of the villa after I trashed it, and my mom had to fly out and get me. She checked me into rehab when I got home, and I got Matilda as a Christmas present.”

  I’m just sitting on the bank, looking at her. She’s telling a story about how sad her life is, but she really seems to be enjoying herself here. She’s in no hurry to get back to her suite at the President Hotel or her movie star life. I know that I’ve never been to Hawaii, and she may pity me because of it, but I feel so bad for her.

  “What do you do at rehab?” I ask.

  “Arts and crafts,” she says with a laugh.

  I smile at her little joke, but I don’t say anything so she can answer the question. She shrugs. “It’s in the desert so there’s nothing to do except talk about our problems. You know, why we use, and why it sucks to be a celebrity. We work on ways to stay clean.”