Royce Rolls

by Margaret Stohl

  The verified account of @PorscheRoyce seemed to confirm the collaboration in a tweet posted earlier today:

  “ROYCERS: Love being back in the studio. Baby I was born 2 rock! @GetBent @BachRoyce @Whiteboy #RWTR6 #Lifespan”

  (Disclosure: Celebcity is a fully owned subsidiary of the Lifespan Network, which is itself a fully owned subsidiary of DiosGlobale.)

  Follow @celebcity for breaking details, or www.celebcity.com.

  * * *

  58 Per JG: We have an overall with Hipster Hut, so this brand may have to go. —D

  59 Not actual cigarettes though, right? Jeff feels that would be “too New York.” —D

  60 A library? Full of BOOKS? Jeff wonders if this could become a comic-book store, food truck rodeo, improv workshop, modeling agency, beach club, or similar? Discuss! —D

  61 Jeff thinks we’ll have to check with Standards about showing this. —D

  62 Per JG: Duct-tape-related product line tie-ins? Check with Lifespan Consumer Products. —D

  Eleven

  NICE NUMBERS

  December 2017

  Trousdale Park Gated Community, BHPO

  (North of Sunset, off Benedict Canyon)

  “You are a horrible human being.” Porsche pointed at her mother with a long kitchen knife. “What are you saying, he’s not good enough for me?” She turned the head of lettuce and went to town on a fresh side, almost as if she knew how to make a salad. (In reality, Porsche just liked chopping. It relieved stress, and on a good day, sometimes made her feel like part of the human race, or so she had once said to Bentley. “You know, almost like I’m one of those people who makes things or builds things, or, I don’t know, eats things.”)

  “Yes,” Mercedes said, slurping even more loudly. “Finally, I’m getting through to you. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s the little things. I have a good eye, you know. There’s something off about him, like something’s not quite right up there.”

  This was the battle raging around Bentley as she hunched over her copy of Zombie Apocalypse book one, trying desperately to block out the noise. She wasn’t reading the book, she was writing in it, jotting down her emotional reactions to her family’s drama and chaos as a coping mechanism suggested by her therapist, Dr. A.

  All around her, the house was overrun with camera crews prepping for tonight’s shoot—an elaborate setup involving a precarious cake tower, a dining room full of long-stemmed roses, and the crew of Entertainment Tomorrow, who had acquired the rights to the exclusive interview. The Royces had fled to the kitchen, which had now become a sort of functional backstage.

  Bentley sat at the Sumatran-teak breakfast table across from her brother, scribbling in the margins of her book while Bach played his thirtieth game of solitaire in a row. (In an uncharacteristically parental move, Mercedes had banned poker in the house after seeing Bach’s first-quarter homework grades.)

  Porsche chopped iceberg lettuce at the kitchen island. Mercedes hovered over her usual mug of black coffee, slurping through a straw. (Veneers!)

  Porsche grimaced. She hated mouth noises and had to leave the room if someone clicked a spoon against their teeth, ate a potato chip, or slurped. She had once asked a stranger on a flight to JFK to stop chewing ice, and he had been across the aisle.

  Mercedes had a deathly fear of knives, as she had ever since their double-wide kitchen, when the sink was right next to the crib. After waking up to find Bach teething on a bloody potato peeler, she had never touched one again.

  This was how they fought.

  The more Mercedes slurped, the harder Porsche chopped, so as to drown out the noise. The more they did either, the more things escalated, and the more they argued.

  Like now.

  “Please.” Porsche rolled her eyes, though it nearly cost her a finger. “Something’s off about my fiancé?”

  “Fake fiancé,” Mercedes corrected her with a slurp.

  Porsche hurled the knife toward the butcher block. “Is that the BEST”—chop—“YOU”—chop—“CAN”—chop— “DO?” Chop.

  “You’ll see. It’ll all come out eventually. It always does.” Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!

  “It? What is it? Be a little more vague, why don’t you?” Chop! Chop! Chop!

  Mercedes pointed to her head with her straw, flinging hot coffee into her own eye. She blinked and kept going. “You want specifics? Pam and I were putting together your engagement press release for tonight. Turns out Whitey doesn’t even know which Whiteboyz albums went platinum. That’s not just stupid. It’s Wikipedia stupid, and that’s just rude. I mean hello? It’s his father’s company! Put in a little effort. Lie about it. Get out your phone and fake it. That’s what I do when someone asks me about you three.”

  Bentley looked up.

  “Exactly. You’re one to talk,” Porsche said, as she cleaved an iceberg head in half. “And Wikipedia stupid? You didn’t know what a meme was until you were on one.”

  Bach snorted as he picked up a card.

  Mercedes upped her game. SLUUUUURP! “If he’s such a genius, then why didn’t he go to college?”

  Bentley sighed and went back to her book.

  Porsche rose to the challenge: CHOP CHOP CHOP! “Seriously? No Royces have ever gone to college! His dad went to Stanford. You barely got through traffic school!”

  Bent sighed more loudly.

  Mercedes: SLUUUUURP! “He works with his father. What does that mean, he couldn’t get a job of his own?”

  Porsche: CHOP CHOP CHOP! “I work with my mother! Is that what you think about me?”

  Mercedes: SLUUUUURP! “I’m just not convinced that you need to rush into this. That you’ve considered all your options.”

  Porsche: CHOP CHOP CHOP! “What rush? Whitey went through Casting six months ago, Mercedes.”

  Mercedes: SLUUUUURP! “Why not a Kennedy? Or at least a Schwarzenegger? I’d be fine with a Spielberg.”

  Porsche: CHOP CHOP CHOP! “I was born in a gas station and spent my formative years in a double-wide. Whitey was born in Toluca Lake and spent his in a ten-thousand-square-foot house with a built-in grill and a smoker. I’d think you of all people could be a little less of a snob, MISS TRASHPIRATIONAL!”

  Mercedes: SLUUUUURP! “Fine. What about a love triangle? The world loves a love triangle. You love a love triangle.”

  Porsche: CHOP CHOP CHOP! “We aren’t going to get sponsors for a love triangle. You can’t sell a product line around a love triangle. Bridal magazines aren’t going to want to put a love triangle on the cover. I’m not torn between two vampires here, Mercedes. This is my marriage we’re talking about.”

  “First marriage,” Bach said, laying down another card.

  “Exactly. First marriage. A girl only has one first marriage,” Porsche said.

  “Or a boy,” Bach said, raising an eyebrow as he drew a card.

  “Even more to the point. Why waste it on him?” Mercedes said. She punctuated the question with an extra-long SLUUUUUUUURP, for emphasis.

  “It’s a werewolf,” Bentley said, looking up from her book.

  “Excuse me?” Porsche glared.

  “It was a vampire and a werewolf. The love triangle,” Bentley added.

  “Ha! That’s right.” Mercedes slurped on. “And think about those magazine covers—and product lines—and corporate sponsors—for a Love Triangle!”

  CHOP SLURP CHOP SLURP CHOP SLURP CHOP SLURP . . .

  “STOP IT!” Bach slapped his hand on the table. “Enough of this! My god, you’re all acting like children. How is it that I’m the youngest and I’m the only one who sees this?” He hurled his deck into the air, giving up.

  As the cards fell, Mercedes and Porsche stopped to stare at Bach. Even Bent couldn’t think of another time when her brother had so openly snapped. He was the chill guy. The easy buffer—not the snapper. Porsche and Mercedes, they were the snappers.

  “I’m sorry, Bach.” Bent sounded as helpless as she felt.

  “It’s not your fault
,” he said wearily, rubbing his face with his hands. “It’s just another Diva Smackdown.” But it didn’t feel the same as usual, Bent knew. The stress of a family falling apart was clearly getting to all of them. She felt a troubling combination of shame and anxiety—a potentially toxic cocktail—and worried about her little brother even more than usual. . . .

  Snapping had a way of spreading. Now Porsche shook her head, raising her knife to point it at her mother. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  Mercedes slammed down her coffee. “Me?”

  Porsche sent the knife clattering to the counter. “Mercedes! Stop trying to produce me! It’s my decision, and I’ve made it. I don’t know why we keep talking about this. You’re not the bride; I’m the bride.”

  Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Oh, wait—you’re the bride? Funny, I don’t think anyone could have missed that.”

  Porsche whirled toward her mother, sending shreds of lettuce flying like confetti. “You know what this is? You can’t stand that this whole thing was my idea. The wedding. It kills you that it’s going so well, doesn’t it? Is that what this is about? Why do you insist on punishing us?”

  “Us?” Mercedes caught it quickly.

  Uh-oh. Bentley ducked behind her book. Bach hid his face in his hands.

  “US?!” Mercedes shrilled again.

  No, Bentley thought. This is not happening.

  Porsche looked frustrated, as if the answer should be obvious. “Us. Whitey and me.”

  Mercedes laughed. HA HA HA HA HA! Bent couldn’t believe she was using her artillery laugh on her own family—or that she felt like she had to.

  “What is wrong with you?” Porsche looked from her mother to her siblings.

  Bentley closed her book, shaking with sudden anger. “We’re the Us, Porsche. The four of Us. Just like we’ve always been.”

  Porsche hesitated, momentarily stunned. “You know what I meant.”

  “No.” Bent shook her head. “No way. I’m not going to let you screw this up. Your fake groom doesn’t get to be your Us. He’s your season-six story line, remember? But that’s all.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s not that simple. I don’t know why you’re talking to me like I’m a moron.” There was a quaver in Porsche’s voice. Bentley wondered: Could her sister be expressing genuine sadness?

  “She’s right,” Bach said, calmly now. Bent could tell he wanted to be the rock, the thing that brought them all back down to earth. Someone had to be, and it was just as well, because what Bent had to say just might make her sister come completely unraveled.

  So Bentley spoke slowly. “He’s not real, Porsche. You’ve never met his parents, have you? You’ve never even been to that house you just told us about.”

  “His parents are traveling. He lives in Venice. I’ve been there,” she said, defensively. “Three times.”

  “But that’s not what it’s like, Porsche,” Mercedes said, trying to sound more levelheaded than she had all day. “Not when it’s real. You just don’t know the difference because you haven’t found it yet. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Nothing about Whitey is real. Not for you. He’s a gig. Like one of those actor waiters you can barely even stand to look at when we’re taping a lunch scene.”

  “Shut up,” Porsche said. “That’s not true.”

  “You know what comes after season six?” Bentley asked. “Season seven.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then use your brain, Porsche.” Bent tried to be gentle as she walked her sister through it. “You’re the producer. If season six is your fake wedding, what do you think season seven is?”

  “I know,” Porsche said, in a tone that made it pretty clear that she didn’t, or at least didn’t want to.

  “Your fake divorce,” Mercedes said. “That’s seven.”

  “I get it. It’s fake. I hear you. Fake. Are you happy? Fake, fake, fake. Now. Can I go back to planning my wedding?” Porsche moved the knife down into the sink and turned on the water. When she turned it back off again, her eyes were blazing. “Has it ever occurred to any of you that you’re the only ones who want this wedding to be fake?”

  Mercedes stared. Bentley felt the blood draining out of her face.

  “Porsche,” Bach said, trying to intervene. “Stop. You can’t be serious. This is, like, crazy talk.”

  “I can. You guys don’t understand. I can and I have to. If I’m being honest, it’s how I feel.” Porsche took a breath. “I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know what will happen, but I know I want this part to happen. And instead of attacking me about it all the time, maybe you all could try to understand how confusing that might be from where I stand.”

  “That’s enough,” Mercedes said. “I’m not going to listen to this garbage anymore. Not from you.”

  “Excuse me?” Porsche looked like she wanted to slap Mercedes.

  “Maybe, Porsche, you should consider the fact that I’m the one who gave birth to you in that gas station, that you’ve never met your father, and that everything I’ve ever done in life has been to make sure you didn’t end up like me. I didn’t name you Chevy, Dodge, and Buick, did I? And yet now here we are.”

  “Please!” Porsche snorted. “Look around. This isn’t a gas station. We aren’t trash.”

  “Right,” Mercedes said. “Because this whole desperate mail-order-bride thing? Now that’s what I’d call classy. Good luck with that. I just hope you get the right name on the cake.”

  Silence.

  Porsche picked the clean knife back up and stabbed it into the butcher block as if it were a corpse. It made a low twanging sound, vibrating as she let go.

  For a moment, Bentley actually thought her sister was going to hurl it at one of them. Because this conversation was over. It had to be. Porsche had reached her breaking point.

  “Listen to me. You can get behind me—and my wedding and my future husband—or you can go sit at table sixteen by the bathroom.” Porsche looked from Mercedes to her brother and sister. “That goes for all of you.”

  “Great,” Mercedes said. “Looking forward to it. Closer to the exit.”

  “Save me a place,” Bentley said. “I’m not going to pretend, Porsche. And I have a tiny bladder.”

  Porsche looked at Bach. He just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter where I sit.”

  “Done,” Porsche said. “I’m just glad it’s all out in the open. I’m glad I know how you feel about it.”

  She raised an eyebrow defiantly.

  “About us.”

  By seven thirty sharp, the Main House was ready for an eight P.M. (nine central) live airtime. The format was simple. The Entertainment Tomorrow interview was really just two things: (1) a (fake) surprise proposal—during a (fake) interview covering Porsche and Whiteboyz’s new (fake) music collaboration—all on live television, and (2) a whole lot of talkie fluff.63 That way, the footage could then be repackaged for an hour-long programming block. (With plenty of commercial breaks! From plenty of sponsors!)

  First the interview had been picked up nationally, then internationally, and now anticipation was building as Porsche’s small (large) nation of social media followers awaited what they thought would be her new label announcement.

  Ever since Whitey had first been seen out with the Royces, most of the tabloid world had been expecting it. Porsche Royce was going to be collaborating on an album with the Whiteboyz label. A few outlets had already guessed that they were also dating, but nobody was expecting THIS.

  The surprise fiancé reveal angle had been Mercedes’s idea—and it was a great one. The engagement wouldn’t be announced until that night on the show, and then on social media, during the West Coast airtime. The fiancé reveal was the twist that would hopefully break the bank, and be replayed in every country on the planet, for years to come. As a result, Entertainment Tomorrow had paid stupid money—stupid millions—for sixteen minutes of bad handheld from Teddy and Mac. Bad exclusive handheld video that was about to become their most
-watched work, excluding maybe the wedding itself, if the predictions were right.

  No pressure, guys.

  Bentley watched from the portable monitors, back in the kitchen. Porsche had been in Hair and Makeup for most of the day. Now she looked as beautiful as ever. If you weren’t her sister, and hadn’t studied her face as intimately as you had your own, and for as long as you’d been alive, you might not have noticed that she had been crying.

  But Bentley did, and she felt terrible. As the live interview went on, she only felt worse.

  “What do you have to say to your millions of fans and followers, Porsche? This hunky young music mogul who you’ve been collaborating with, can we expect an album anytime soon?” A fabulous power-blonde with an inarguably good blowout held out a square microphone with a slick Entertainment Tomorrow logo.

  She knew what she was doing.

  “Obviously, what we care about is making music together,” Porsche said, trying not to blush.

  “Sweet, sweet music.” Whitey grinned. “You know it.”

  Porsche smiled. “We’ve been really busy lately, haven’t we, Whitey?”

  “Aw, you know it, Fancy Face.” He held his stomach. “Aww, man? Did you hear that? Think that was my stomach growling, on live television.”

  The journalist smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “Well, goodness! That’s certainly not something you hear every day.”

  Porsche looked at the journalist apologetically. “Sorry, we did come right from the studio. I think neither one of us even had five minutes to grab a granola bar tonight.”

  “That’s okay. I got this.” Whitey whipped out his cell phone and punched a few numbers into the keypad.

  Porsche looked from the journalist to Whitey, feigning confusion. “What’s he—what are you doing? Whitey?”

  Whitey smiled at her, putting his hand on her arm. Bent noticed that even now, his signature black bandanna was wrapped around his wrist. “Mercedes? Let me put you on speaker.” He held up the phone. “Hey, Moms, you’re on live television. Say hi to the planet.”