He paused for a second, apparently thinking. “Are you an actor? I mean, seeing as this is Hollywood and all?”
This is crazy. He looked at my face and he still didn’t recognize me. It was a thrilling thought, and a burst of nervous electricity spread down her spine.
“Sort of,” Bent said, keeping her voice even. “Are you?”
“Me? No. Never. I can barely even handle acting like myself. Not to mention acting my age, or acting responsible, or acting like a grown-up. I’d be the world’s worst actor.” He paused. “But you are one. Okay. That’s cool. I’m down with that.”
“Also good to know,” she said. As she did, she realized she meant it.
“So—you can’t just take time off, or whatever?”
“Not really. Not yet. Not take off, I mean, like you did. But I want to—I mean, I hope to.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Things. My job. My family. I’m not sure. A lot of stuff is kind of up in the air right now.” Please, god, let that be true, Bent thought. “But I was thinking I might still apply to some schools, anyway. I’ll be a senior in the fall, and most applications aren’t even due until December.” Saying it somehow made it seem real.
“Yeah?” the boy asked, but he didn’t sound like he knew a thing about it, or cared. “My family would love it if I did that, but I’m not sure I’m what you would call college material.”
“Ah. Sucks for you,” Bent said.
“I mean, I’m smart enough,” he said, a little defensively, which she thought was cute. “I think.”
Look at that. He cares what you think of him—how is that not adorable? It’s not not adorable.
Bent nodded. “I get it. How do you really know, right?”
The cushions squeaked, as if he was settling in. “I figured I might go someday. I mean, I read books. And I like comics,” he volunteered, as if that was some kind of evidence of intelligence.
It is.
“Marvel or DC?” Bent asked.
“Marvel, Wolverine, and that’s not a real question.” Ding, ding, ding! “You?”
“Black Widow, and I’ll read any spy novel,” Bent said.
“Also LA noir. Like, old detective stories,” he said. Right answer.
“And history books, about wars and military strategies,” Bent offered.
“Exactly. And survival narratives. The nonfiction ones,” he countered. Three for three!
She raised an eyebrow. “Where people live off the land?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“So, zombie apocalypses?” She held her breath. This one was important.
He scoffed. “How else will you know the many uses of duct tape?”
My perfect man.
Bent sat up. “What about toxins and venom and, you know, lethal mold.”
The chaise sighed as the boy rustled next to her. “Hey, you should always know what could kill you. That’s my policy, anyhow.”
“Solid thinking.” She tried again. “What’s your take on the Big One?”
“Don’t get me started.” He sounded almost cheery now. “Every sewer pipe in Southern California is going to burst. Everyone in that room back there will suddenly be deprived of their private toilets.” They both started laughing at the thought, and he reached for her in the darkness, all the way from his chair to hers, touching her arm with one tentative hand. “So just say all that to a college. I’m sure they’ll take you.”
“Right? How could they not?” She could feel the goose bumps spreading under his fingers, and she wondered if he could feel them too.
Don’t move your arm.
He moved his arm.
Damn it.
“Now you know my big secret,” Bent said. “You probably think I’m crazy.”
“Of course you’re crazy. You’re a television star.”
“I didn’t say television. I also didn’t say star.” She raised an eyebrow, even if he couldn’t see it.
“Okay, starlet.”
“Starlet on hiatus.”
“Another clue. Actress. TV. Hiatus. Zombies. You play a corpse on Throne of the Undead?”15
“So, so close,” Bentley said, smiling in the darkness.
They sat in comfortable silence now, not really talking and not really minding. The sounds of the party floated down the stairs toward them. She imagined the room. Bach flirting and winning at the tables in back. Porsche flirting and posing for the paparazzi out front. Mercedes flirting and hovering around Jeff Grunburg and his minions.
HA HA HA HA HA. Bent could almost hear her mother’s assault laughter now.
Upstairs, everyone would be moving around one another like little schools of fish, where lots of tiny ones feasted off one big one, no matter how they all pretended not to. Nobody would be looking at anybody they were already talking to. What was the point?
Bent gazed up at the stars, what she could see of them in the city sky, which was dark now. Why do this? Why bother? What does it matter to anyone? What is this?
The boy moved in the chair next to her.
I can’t go on a regular date. A regular person couldn’t handle the cameras. I wouldn’t expect them to—and I wouldn’t do that to them.
She heard the chair scrape as he adjusted it.
Would he want to be with me? What did he see, when he lit that match? Who does he think that girl is?
Then it didn’t matter, because Bent saw Bach appear on the stairs and sat up. “I have to go.” She stood. The boy stood up next to her. She had hoped standing up would shed some—any!—light on his face, but it didn’t. His features stayed hidden in shadow.
Oh, come on.
Bent lingered for one last second. “And you were wrong, by the way. I’m no starlet. My sister’s the star.”
“Ah,” said the boy. “There you go. There’s the real crisis.”
“Why is it a crisis?”
“Because to me, you’re the star.” And with that, he leaned forward and pulled her by the hand toward him—
Then kissed her cheek, his lips soft and warm in the night.
She felt her face catch fire, turning pink.
It was the sweetest, most unexpected moment of her seventeen years, and she didn’t want him to ever stop.
He stopped.
Damn it.
“What’s your name?” Bentley breathed.
“Asa,” he said, not letting go of her hand. “What’s yours?”
“You’ll figure it out,” she said with a smile. Bent couldn’t bring herself to say it. Her name would break the spell—and she was still enjoying the revelation that someone could like her whether or not she was BEING BENTLEY.
“I will?”
“Everyone does, eventually.” She let go of his fingers as she pulled away, running across the damp bricks until she reached the stairs.
She looked back and smiled. He still hadn’t moved. She turned and took the stairs two at a time.
In her hand was his matchbook.
* * *
14 JG is in favor of the Mexico references. Great for DiosGlobale product placement. Could Bentley work in a reference to some of the more popular Luchadores here? Esp the ones DiosGlobale has contracts with? Pls revise. —D
15 Per JG: Could we change this reference to a Lifespan show? Greatest American Ninjacats or similar? —D
Four
THE GREAT WALL OF DIVA
June 2017
Barneys New York
(Wilshire at Rodeo Drive)
“Mercedes is late,” Bentley groused.
Bach shrugged. “Of course Mercedes is late.”
Bent stared across the white-linen-covered bistro table at her sweating brother, who looked as miserable as she felt. Santa Ana winds were blowing in from the desert today, which made the air in the café unbearably hot and dry, even in the shade of the white canvas umbrella over their heads. Regardless, Production had refused to scrap the shoot.
“Production” meaning Mercedes.
<
br /> So here they were, shooting where the Royce family meetings were always shot: the semi-fabulous rooftop restaurant on the fifth floor of the Beverly Hills store of Barneys New York, known for its killer view.
“It’s hiatus,” Bentley groaned. “Why did she make us come back and shoot a stupid family meeting two weeks into hiatus? When the season’s over, it’s supposed to be over, right?”
“Right,” Bach said, leaning forward in his chair.
“Hold still,” Ted (camera one) said, shoving a mic inside Bach’s shirt collar. Ted was a good guy; he had once come to school with the younger Royces on Grandparents and Special Friends Day. (Mercedes no longer spoke to her own parents and didn’t really do friends, special or not.)
“What did you have to cancel today, Ted?” Bent asked the hulking cameraman. She tried not to look at his pit stains, which now reached almost down to his waist.
“Me? Had a tee time with the crew at Rancho Park.” Ted shook his red dreadlocks (Dred Ted, that was what Bach and Bent had first called him) and puffed out his pink cheeks beneath them. “No big.” That was all Dred Ted had ever said for five years now regarding Mercedes and her last-minute production changes. Dred Ted was a wise man.
“I was supposed to be surfing.” Bach shook his head as Ted dropped the mic cord down his back. “Some guys from my poker club were meeting up at Zuma.”
“You don’t surf,” Bent said, annoyed at the mention of her brother’s poker habit. In the two weeks since the benefit, he’d played every day. He was acting like Porsche did when she fell off the Diet Coke wagon. One day she had given it up—the next, you opened her car door and all the empty soda cans fell out.
“I might have surfed. I like cute boys in wet suits.” Bach shrugged. “Now I guess we’ll never know.”
Mac (camera two) held up a mic. “Your turn, B. Let’s get you wired up.”
Bent leaned forward in her distressed wicker chair. Mac pulled out the tails of her shirt (Ulla Johnson) and ran the cord up her back over her bra strap and bare skin, just as he had most days for the past five years. He knew (and didn’t care) that her bra would be some kind of horrible running bra, just the same way that she knew (and didn’t care) that his fingernails would be black with motorcycle grease. That was the nature of the bond.
Beyond Mac and Ted and occasionally JoJo (camera three), if anyone’s underwear managed to show, there was no one left to notice; the restaurant patio was full of tables and empty of customers, except for Bentley and Bach. Even though it was Sunday, and even though the deck was normally crowded, no restaurant turned the Royce family away—not when they were filming. If the network used the footage, the social media payoff would be huge; people would drive in from as far as Phoenix or Salt Lake City, just for the photo op.
So the tables were held, and the regular people were turned away, making it clear that unknown social media followers who may or may not ever show up to eat were somehow ten times more important than real customers who were already waiting outside. LA ran on invisible rules like that. Sure, there was a whole lot of talk about the freedom of food trucks and taco shacks (carne asada is not a crime!)16 and how you could wear sneakers (Golden Goose!) and jeans (size zero!) into any restaurant in town—but that was only if you were young and hot and as toned as a free-range chicken.
Or if you happened to be a part of the Mercedes Royce Show.
In a few minutes, Mercedes would be able to pretend to enjoy the view of sky and palm trees and hills—and, thanks to Mac and Ted and JoJo and the rest of the RWTR crew—nobody else would.17
“I see you broke out the man-bun today,” Bent said, looking back at her brother. “That’s new. I mean, for you.” Bach’s longish gold-brown hair was pulled up and out of his eyes in a kind of stubby, perspiring ponytail that sprouted like a damp mushroom cap on the crown of his head.
Bach reached up to feel for himself. “I know, I know. I’m pathetic. I was going for less of a man-bun and more of a man-doughnut. Seeing as every guy in the room when we were at the Chateau last time had one.”
“Not the whole flock.” Bentley grinned. Talking about the party sent a secret thrill down her spine. She reached her hand into her pocket and held on to Asa’s matchbook, a pleasant reminder that meeting the mystery boy had been real, not a dream.
And that it—he—the night—had been amazing.
Even if I can’t find him on Instagram or Snapchat or Facebook or Twitter or anywhere, she thought, even if he hasn’t found me yet either.
She took the matchbook out of her pocket and held it between two fingers. In blue cursive letters it read Philippe’s. She wondered where Philippe’s was, and if she could find him there. Her search of the matchbook’s origins had turned up few suitably glam A-lister alternatives; all she’d found was a bar in Kyoto, a restaurant in New York, and a chef in Montreal.
“Fine,” Bach said, mistaking her smile for a laugh, feeling for his hair. “So it’s more like a man mini-doughnut.”
“Try doughnut hole,” Bent said, still smiling.
“Stop. I’m already starving.” Bach looked at Ted. “Where are they?”
“Five minutes,” Ted replied, holding up his walkie. “Pam just got a sighting on MRSDIVA.” Mercedes drove a massive white Mercedes SUV that looked like an ambulance; the crew tracked her (for their own safety, Bentley thought) by her unmistakable vanity plate. At least it was better than her convertible, which had the plates MRSMERC. The Mercenary Royce nickname had sprung up as soon as she’d brought it home.
“Wow. Five minutes? That’s almost punctual for her. You know those reality show divas,” Bent added, in a lame attempt to improve her brother’s mood. (Diva jokes were his favorite.)
“Yeah, yeah. Easy on the reality, double down on the diva,” Bach said, with a melodramatic sigh. “Today I starve while last time we shot here I had to eat lunch six times back-to-back. Order, fight, pee, change, repeat. The Diva isn’t just late, she’s cruel.”
“The Diva giveth and the Diva taketh away,” Bentley agreed.
And then, as if they’d somehow conjured her up themselves, the Diva was upon them—and the easy camaraderie of cast and crew instantly vanished.
“Is this the setup I asked for, Teddy?” Mercedes stepped into the center of the deck, JoJo (camera three) scurrying after her. “Is Mac going to tape down these cables? Someone’s going to die here, and I’m going to get sued, and you’re going to get fired—and not in that order.” The crew went scrambling until her path was clear and the surrounding white umbrellas were tipped up, just so. Once satisfied, Mercedes launched herself toward the table, sat, and dropped her bag at her feet.
“God, this weather. Can we set up fans or something? Blow the haze away? Pam? Where’s Pam? And where’s my drink? Hello? Do none of you even show up until I get here?” Her minions went running, which was what she expected and more to the point what she felt she deserved, Bentley knew. Greatness demanded effort, her mother liked to say, not just from herself but from everyone around her.
Effort was an understatement—but great Mercedes Royce was.
Today, if not exactly dazzling, she was something in all white, even in the bleak heat. She was shining. Glaring, maybe. It was her signature color. White suit jacket. White fitted pencil skirt. Cristophe salon blowout. Chunky eighteen-karat collar and cuffs. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, Bentley thought. That’s my mama.
Mercedes picked up a waiting mic from the table, tucking the cord expertly behind her lapel, before Ted could take a step toward her. She looked back to the doorway expectantly. “Come on. What are you doing in there?”
Cue the sister.
Porsche, smacking her lips and waving a lip-gloss wand, followed in her mother’s path with less commotion but no less magnificence. As always, Porsche nailed it when they were shooting. Her fitted black Dolce dress—everything black, that was Porsche’s go-to color—dove down between the truly exceptional breasts she had gotten for her sixteenth birthday. He
r face was equally impeccable, with utterly flawless, Cleopatra-perfect makeup, and—beneath her enormous custom Parisian sunglasses—about as much eyeliner. Her mouth was drawn with a vibrant rose, huge and lush and glossy.
There was no denying it. Porsche Royce was a marvel, even to her little sister. She was the very definition of femininity, like the armless lady statue in the Louvre. (The one on the stairs that they’d rushed by on the way out, when Bach had to pee.) Or like the ancient whatever fertility goddess on the slide from Bentley’s art history class. On days like today, my sister makes most women seem like men in comparison, Bent thought.
“How do I look?” Porsche pursed her glossy lips.
“Hideous,” Bach said.
“My thong is totally riding up my crack,” she said, unfazed. With that, she dropped her Lippies by Porsche lipgloss wand and jammed on her mic.
“Lovely,” Mercedes said.
As Diva Number Two sat back, Mac and Ted and now JoJo circled the table with their handhelds, getting into position.
Producer Pam lurked in the doorway, muttering into her headset as a row of waiters lugged fans out to the patio, per Mercedes’s request. (As if they really could blow the haze away!) “Quiet on set,” Pam called out, raising one hand into the air. The waiters froze in place. “And we’re rolling.”
A waiter in an entirely different uniform and with significantly more chiseled cheekbones—probably played by an out-of-work actor—scurried over, holding a tray of drinks.
Mercedes smiled flirtatiously at him. “Wow, that was fast.”
Porsche made a point of ignoring him; she only flirted with herself, or at least people more famous than she was.
“Sweet shackles, Mercedes.” Bach looked his mother over. “Jingle all the way, babe.” Bach was improvising, as usual; he never bothered to read the scripts ahead of time, which drove his mother insane—also as usual.
“Is that any way to talk to the woman who keeps you in Rag and Bone?” Another classic m-word dodge. Mercedes glanced around to make sure the cameras were still rolling, and then grabbed Bach by both cheeks. “Darling boy. Kiss, kiss.” But they were just words. No actual kisses were exchanged. There was entirely too much lipstick involved for that.
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