by Lisa Yee
“Put that back or I’ll call the police!”
Startled, I look up. It’s only Ted.
“Good one.” I laugh nervously.
“I’m serious. I’ll turn you in, Maybe.”
“Ted, stop joking,” I grab his arm and whisper. “Let’s get out of here.”
He stands firm and glares at me. I glare back, but Ted wears me down. I toss the liner and lipstick at him and storm out.
“I don’t know what you’re getting so hissy about,” he says, running to catch up to me. “You should be thanking me for stopping your crime spree. It’s a quick way to land in jail.”
I whip around and face him. “I spent the night sleeping in a lounge. I’ve had my purse and money stolen. My mother’s fiance tried to rape me. I’ve run away from home. I have no place to live. No job. No nothing. And I came all this way to find a father who doesn’t even know I’m alive. How about that for a reason to be hissy?”
Ted mulls this over. “Not bad,” he says. “But hurry up and get over your pity party because we have important matters to discuss.”
As we sit on a bench facing the cafeteria, Ted launches into another blow-by-blow description of his interview with Gloria de la Tour.
“She was wearing pearls as big as marbles, and when I asked if they were real, she said yes and let me try them on. . . .
“She said I was very Continental— “Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but why would a world-famous movie star want to hire you?”
Ted looks miffed. “She was quite impressed with my credentials,” he says.
“What credentials? You’re a kid from Kissimmee.”
“First of all, there’s the Youth for a Better Tomorrow Caucus that I founded.”
“You’re the only member.”
“And my letters of reference.”
“Those were from your parents.”
“No,” Ted corrects me, “I had one from Mrs. Escobar, one from Ms. Harper in the attendance office, and one from Congressman Mason.”
“How on earth did you wrangle a letter from him?”
“Paww knows someone, who knows someone, whose sister knows him. By the way, Miss de la Tour lives in a mansion, and guess what? I’ll be driving her Rolls-Royce!”
I look up. “Say that again?”
“Miss de la Tour lives in a mansion— “Not that,” I snap. “What exactly will you be driving?”
“Her Rolls-Royce,” Ted repeats, puffing his chest out. “When Chauffeur is off, I will be driving the Rolls.”
“Let me make sure I understand this. Some old movie star you just met is going to let you drive her Rolls-Royce?”
“Yes!” Ted shouts. “Is this totally cool or is this totally cool?”
“It’s absurd.”
“I told her that I was an expert driver and that I’ve even competed on the Grand Prix Raceway in Florida.”
“Ted, those were go-karts.”
“A car s a car.”
I am about to question Gloria de la Tour’s sanity when Hollywood shows up in his cafeteria uniform. He’s still wearing his hairnet. Hollywood hands me a brown paper bag with my dinner inside. Ted is now recounting his interview for Hollywood. I am far more focused on the cheeseburger and fries. After I finish mine, I start on Hollywood’s. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy paying attention to Ted, which Ted is lapping up.
“Gloria de la Tour?” Hollywood marvels. “She almost co-starred with James Dean. . . .”
I zone out. I just want to go to bed. I just want a bed.
Afterward, we all head to our respective dorms. As I settle into the couch, the security guard walks past.
“Hi Maybe.”
“Hey Parker.”
“How’s science?”
“Good. How’s your daughter?”
Parker stops and takes out his wallet. “She changed her hair,” I note.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling at the picture. “She wanted to look like Snow White, so my wife cut her hair. Before she cut it, I said, ‘Zoey, there aren’t any black Snow Whites,’ but she didn’t care. She just said, ‘Well, I’ll be the first one.’”
Parker seems like a good dad. I hope mine is too. I wait another half hour even though I’m sleepy. Nelson’s Neighborhood comes on at one a.m. It’s worth the wait. Nelson B. Nelson is conflicted because he accidentally saw the answers to his history test. In the end, his father counsels him about honesty and Nelson confesses to his teacher. She changes the test and he still gets an A. Good ol’ Nelson B. Nelson. He has all the luck.
The next morning I wander around and apply for jobs at a couple of places near USC. Since my purse was stolen and I don’t have any ID, I’m turned down everywhere I go.
“Without any ID, they might think you’re a runaway or something,” a nice girl at Gorilla Grill tells me. I pretend to laugh. “Have you told your parents about your purse? Maybe they can send you some money. I always just tell mine I need money for books, and they send it right away.”
“Good idea,” I say, like that’s even a remote possibility.
“Hey, are you hungry?”
“A little.” I wonder if she can hear my stomach growling.
“I made too many subs,” she says, putting two into a bag. “And we’re not allowed to sell them unless they’re made fresh and to order.”
“Oh, um, well, I don’t have my wallet. . . .”
“No charge,” she insists. “If you don’t take them I’d have to throw them away.”
“Thank you. I really mean that.”
As I sit on the curb, the homeless lady strolls past me pushing her shopping cart. She sees me eating, licks her lips, and keeps going. I watch her plod along, her bare feet shoved into gray sneakers. “Wait!” I hear myself call out. “Wait up!”
I catch up to her and hold out the unopened sandwich. “I had an extra one,” I explain. She narrows one eye at me, like a half squint or maybe a wink. “It’s okay, really,” I insist.
Her gnarled hands wrap around mine. I tense up. She brings my half-eaten sandwich to her mouth and takes a bite. Her breath is awful. She lets go of my hand and closes her eyes as she chews. When she opens her eyes, they sparkle. “That’s good,”
she murmurs. “Okay, I’ll take both. Does it come with melons, or perhaps a nice assortment of cheeses?”
“No, just the sandwich,” I answer apologetically.
As she devours her meal, she says in a gravelly voice, “My name’s Audrey Hepburn. I live at Tiffany’s, that’s where I always eat breakfast. Here, I want to pay you for these.”
I shake my head. “They didn’t cost me anything,” I say, slowly backing away.
“I insist,” she says, rummaging through her shopping cart. Her hand comes out clutching something. “This is for you.” She opens her palm. It’s empty. “Good vibes,” she says, pleased with herself. “I got lots of them.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Unfortunately, Audrey Hepburn’s good vibes do nothing for me. It’s the same story everywhere I go. No one’s hiring. At least, no one’s hiring me.
I end up hanging out in the library. I don’t have a library card, but the stacks are big and I can disappear there. Over the past few days I’ve read Flannery O’Connor and Tom Clancy and even a book claiming World War III is around the corner. But what I’ve been doing most is looking for my father.
There are banks of computers that sit empty. Most of the students have their own laptops. I type in . . .
Gunnar Los Angeles Gunnar Hollywood Gunnar Florida Gunnar Producer Gunnar Actor Gunnar Director Every Gunnar combination I can think of, I try. Even though I know nothing will come up, I even enter, “Gunnar Chessy Maybelline Family.”
If only I had Gunnar’s last name. That’s when it hits me! My birth certificate. Maybe my father’s name will be on it. There are thousands of Internet sites that seem to be set up for the sole purpose of helping me get my birth certificate. For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, I’m getting somewh
ere. All I need is: a valid photo ID a credit card to be at least eighteen years old.
Great. I strike out completely.
Next, I Google “birth parents” and three million sites come up. It looks like most are for adoptees. I wish I had been adopted, then I’d have no ties to Chessy. Ted’s lucky he doesn’t have baggage like I do. Still, it’s weird. He has no desire to find his birth parents. He’s not even curious.
“Why would I want to find my birth parents?” he said once, looking shocked. “I know who my real parents are. I live with them.”
I find a working pay phone and punch in the toll-free number from one of the birth-parent search sites. “Is Gunnar his first or last name?” the lady asks.
“First?”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” the lady is telling me. “But with only one name it makes it nearly impossible. Your mother should have the information that should lead you to your father. The best place to start is with her.”
I try explaining that she’s the last person I want to talk to. It’s beginning to dawn on me that without Chessy’s help, I’m nowhere.
“There is one thing that we can do,” the lady offers. “We can register you in our database. If by chance your father is looking for you, he’d be able to find you here.”
I doubt anyone’s looking for me, but I give her my information anyway.
With no place else to go, I spend the next couple of days at the library computer contacting other adoption/birth search sites and giving them my information. I use Ted’s cell phone number as the way to contact me. It’s depressing to think about how many people are looking for someone.
I gather my things and get up to stretch my legs. For fun, I think of a title and look it up in the catalog. I am surprised that it’s here. I write down the number and take the elevator to the fourth floor. There it is, among the miles of shelves. A Little Princess. I haven’t read this in ages. There’s an open window on the first floor near the bathroom. Good thing Ted’s not here. I toss the book out into the bushes, and then retrieve it.
I spend the rest of the day in Hollywood’s room getting lost in the book.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Summer school has started. There are more students in the library now compared to two days ago. There are more students in the dorms too, so Parker’s pretty busy. He says that employees’ kids get to go to USC for free; that’s why he’s working here. Even though Zoey is only seven, he’s looking out for the day she starts college. I wonder if my father went to college. I’m sure he did. Probably Ivy League.
“What about you, Maybe?” It’s three a.m. and Parker’s on his break. He hands me some banana bread. His wife makes the best banana bread.
“What about me?”
“When did you decide to become a doctor? You’re already keeping doctors’ hours, you night owl.”
I laugh. “A doctor?”
“You told me you were premed.”
“Oh! Right. Premed. Well, I’ve always really been into the whole medical thing, helping people. You know.”
After Parker leaves, I curl up on the couch. I have about four hours until students start making their way to breakfast. If I’m lucky some of them will be in a hurry and leave coffee or bagels on the tables.
Now that Hollywood’s obsessed with his screenwriting class and Ted’s been working for Miss de la Tour for a few days, they’re both happy and excited, caught up in their new worlds. But for me, the days seem to drag on forever.
Hollywood feeds me lunch when he can, but sometimes my only meal is dinner. Ted’s in charge of that, although he’s been getting off of work later and later. I just wait in Ted’s lounge until he shows up. The international students pretty much ignore me. To them, I’m just another foreigner.
One day I find a five-dollar bill on the ground outside the student store. I race over to the drugstore and buy black eyeliner. I wish I had enough for lipstick too.
My stomach is grumbling.
“Uh, Maybe?” Hollywood hands me a greasy paper bag. “This is really hard . . .”
“I know,” I tell him, “but isn’t it worth it? I mean, look at you. Sure, you’re working and going to school, but Hollywood, it’s USC! It’s your dream come true.”
“Yeah, but Maybe, we need to talk. I want to talk about, you know, you being here and stuff.”
“Oh. Okay.” I bite into the burger. Even though it’s cold, it tastes sooooo good. “Listen, Hollywood. You’ve been great. I’ll pay you back for the food when I get some money, I promise.”
“It’s not just that. All your stuff is still in my room. Ted’s things too. And you guys are over all the time. I don’t mind, honest. But my roommate—”
“Did Ian say something? I didn’t mean to stare that time he came in from the shower. I just, I dunno.”
“No, no, it’s not that, although that was awkward.” Hollywood pauses. “But, well, some of his money is missing and he . . .”
What? “I didn’t take it!” I throw my hamburger at Hollywood.
“I never said you did,” Hollywood says evenly as he tries to wipe the ketchup off his shirt. “Nor did Ian. If you need money, I can lend you some more.”
“Screw you, Hollywood. I didn’t take the money.”
Hollywood looks miserable. “I’m sorry, Maybe. It’s just that I can’t have you coming in and out of my room all the time. Our resident advisor said that from now on guests have to sign in, on account of the thefts that have been happening.”
I pick up the burger off the ground and chew on it as Hollywood blabbers. I don’t even care that he’s filming me. “I’ll get my stuff out right now,” I mutter. “Give me your key.”
Ted’s at work, catering to glorious Gloria de la Tour’s every whim. He’s loving his job as much as I am hating my stupid life. Ted can get his own stuff later. On the visitors sign-in sheet I write “Aileen Wuornos.” She’s Florida’s notorious serial killer. The guy just looks at my name and, without bothering to check my ID, says, “Aileen, you can go on up.”
The door’s unlocked and no one’s home. Hollywood was probably the last one to leave. His family never locked their trailers. I grab my duffel bag. There’s a twenty-dollar bill on the dresser. I take that too. If Ian thinks I’m stealing from him, I might as well. Finally I swipe all the mints from his stupid candy jar.
As I walk through campus munching on the mints, I look for a place to stash my things. This is really pathetic. I decide on some bushes near Founders Hall. When I part the plants I spy an empty beer can and a yellow sock. Looks like someone’s been here before me.
It’s starting to get dark. Good. Ted will be back soon.
I wait for him at his dorm. The television is on a Spanish-language station and a bunch of Asian kids are watching. “Anyone mind if I change it to Nelson’s Neighborhood?.” I ask. When no one responds, I sink into the couch and stare at the TV. You don’t have to speak Spanish to know that the lady in the red dress is up to no good.
After the lady in red robs a bank and kills two people, Ted shows up. “C’mon, let’s grab Hollywood and go for a drive,” he shouts as he comes bounding toward me. “We can even invite Ian.”
“Ian hates us,” I tell him.
“He doesn’t hate me. Everyone loves me. I can understand why he hates you, though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, just look at you.” I thought I looked pretty good, especially since I had just rimmed my eyes with black liner. “You look like you’re ready for Halloween. And then all you do is mope around and act like some slug.”
“It’s not my fault I don’t have a cushy job like you,” I shoot back.
“Whatever.”
Ian claims to be busy, but Hollywood joins us as we head to the parking lot. I am still not speaking to either of them. Ted marches past the Green Hornet.
“Hey, where are you going?” Hollywood calls out.
Ted just smiles. We turn the corner and all freak out at once.
“Get in,” Ted says, opening the door to the Rolls-Royce.
“Hot damn!” Hollywood shouts.
“Ohmygod!” I scream and slide across the smooth leather seats. “Ohmygod!”
Ted starts the car and inches out of the parking space. It doesn’t even sound like the engine is on. “We drive down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Tourists try to look into the car to see if we are some bodies.
“Chauffeur is on vacation, so Miss de la Tour says I am her driver for the week,” Ted boasts.
Hollywood runs his hand over the shiny wooden dashboard. “Does she know you have the car now?”
Ted doesn’t answer. He’s too busy turning the windshield wipers on and off. “The engine is handmade,” he finally says. “Guess how much this car costs. Just guess.”
“Forty thousand dollars?” I throw out. I’ve never been that into cars. I haven’t even taken driver’s training yet. Chessy refused to let me get my license. “Why do you need to drive?” she asked. “You never go anywhere.”
“One hundred thousand dollars?” Hollywood ventures.
“Over a quarter million dollars!” Ted screams. He swerves sharply to the left to miss hitting a pole. Ted can barely reach the pedals, so he scoots up and down in the driver’s seat—down to press the gas or brakes, up to see over the steering wheel.
Hollywood whistles. “We bought our double-wide trailer for twenty-four thousand five hundred dollars. It was used.”
We are driving down Melrose Avenue now. It seems crowded for a Thursday night.
“Pull over,” I shout. “There’s a parking spot!”
“Why . . .” Ted starts to ask.
“Just do what I tell you!”
Ted does a dismal job at parallel parking.
I turn to Hollywood. “Hand me your wallet.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” I order. “Stay in the car; I’ll be right back.”
Fifteen minutes later, I return. I toss Hollywood’s wallet to him and hand Ted a bag. Cautiously, he opens it. “What are these for?”
“For you. So you can reach the pedals and drive. They had tons of them in the retro store.”
“I’m not wearing these!”