Dooey sent her the occasional email, but otherwise, Demi didn’t speak to him again until her court appearance. Dad and her stepmom, Mary, came to lend moral support. He was noticeably relieved that her lawyer wore a suit to court. He brought an assistant, first-year-law-student niece named Tracy. Tracy was Demi’s age, but she acted a lot older, the picture of responsibility, efficiency, and competence. She was cute, too, in a soft gray suit and heels. When she and Demi were introduced, Demi sensed that all the adults in their group were comparing the two of them. Tracy’s parents were probably proud of her, and felt confident she’d find her way in the world. Dad and Mary? They’d be thrilled if Demi wasn’t sent to prison.
The court proceedings lasted only twenty minutes. Demi had dressed exactly as her lawyer advised, in a cardigan and trousers she borrowed from her stepmom, flats, next to no makeup, and her hair in a tight pony. She sat and stood when instructed by her lawyer. She’d followed his instructions and was ready to pee in a cup and present it to the judge. “My piss, your honor, nice and warm,” she’d say with a wink that might get her thrown in the clink.
But it didn’t come to that. No one asked for her precious fluids, or her testimony. Dooey did his thing, and gave a speech he’d probably done a thousand times. She hoped he’d stage a dramatic courtroom stunt of having a random person from the gallery burp into the Breathalyzer, maybe even the judge herself. But no, he just recited the defense, plus a lot of puffery about Demi’s promising career in marketing, her upstanding place in the community, and the tragedy of such a promising life being marred by a technological flaw.
Dooey wasn’t finished when Judge Klavan, a matronly, big-breasted, thin-haired grandmotherly type, interrupted him. “I’ve heard enough,” she said. “We can go to trial, or I can give you a judgment right now.”
They huddled at the defense table. “If we go to trial, you’ll probably win,” said Dooey.
“Let’s go to trial.”
“It’ll cost another five thousand dollars.”
“Let’s get a judgment right now. Your success rate is eighty percent, right?”
“It’s a risk.”
“No risk, no reward.”
“There is no reward,” he said. “The only outcomes are varying degrees of punishment.”
Despite hearing his warning, Demi believed it would all go away with the drop of the gavel. Call it willful delusion or unbridled optimism. “We have a solid defense, and the judge doesn’t seem like a hard-ass.”
“Okay,” said Dooey. To the bench, he gave their decision. “We waive the right to a trial.”
Judge Klavan said, “Demi Michaels, you are guilty of driving under the influence. Your driver’s license is suspended for twelve months. You’re ordered to pay the fine of two thousand dollars. You will do fifty hours of community service. The record of this arrest will be expunged. If you’re arrested again for DUI, you will serve jail time. Next case!”
That was it. Dooey and the law student each took an elbow and guided Demi out of the courtroom. Her parents met them in the hallway. Mary dabbed tears of joy from her eyes. Dad slapped Dooey on the back and said, “I knew you were the right choice all along!”
“Guys!” said Demi, breaking up their victory party. “We lost. I got the book thrown right at my forehead.”
The adults all seemed surprised. Dad said, “The record is expunged.”
“I lost my license and all my savings!”
Mary, usually sympathetic, said, “You drove drunk, and you paid the price. You should be thrilled your stupid mistake won’t destroy your future. I never want to hear you complain about this outcome again.”
The drive back to Dad’s was tense, to say the least. If Demi were in grade school, Dad would teach her a lesson by making her write a thank-you note to the judge. It took Mary a minute to calm down and find some compassion, and even longer to stop feeling guilty about crossing the nonbirth-parent line. She hadn’t. No one else could have broken through Demi’s selfish first reaction to the judgment. But after Mary’s brutal honesty, she rethought it. Her parents were right. She should be as relieved as they were.
She really should. One day, she would. But right now, she saw a year on two wheels, picking up trash, and depending on her dad for a paycheck.
* * *
That Sunday afternoon, Demi and Catherine set up lawn chairs in the front yard with a pitcher of lemonade and a platter of jerk chicken. She baked a pan of corn bread, too, and gave out squares to all the residents. Wally took one, and asked, “With whole corn? Because that’ll give me the runs.”
“No whole corn,” Demi assured him, and he went back to trimming the hedges.
“Why don’t you call a friend?” asked Catherine. “You lost your license, but you’re not dead.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“That’s true for all of us. I just don’t get why you want to sit around with me on this beautiful day.”
“I like hanging with you.” With Catherine, she could relax. She didn’t feel pressure to be funny, or a hard drinker, or talk about “her future” (Dad’s favorite subject). Sarah had checked in a few times since the arrest, trolling for gossip. Demi texted back that she was laying low until it was all sorted out. Now that it was, Demi didn’t feel inclined to get back in touch with her. She was still bruised and battered, not in a party mood. Plus she was broke, and had to rely on pedal power to get anywhere.
“Do your friends even know what happened in court?” asked Catherine.
“I told them it was a close call, but I won’t be joining the cast of Orange Is the New Black and won’t get a cool prison nickname, like Squeaks or Sliver.”
“Most of the women in prison are there because of some man, you know.”
“Makes sense.”
“If my husband hadn’t run off to Australia, I would have killed him.”
“Wait … what?”
“He deserved it. I woke up one morning, and he was gone. He left a note, though, thanking me for twenty years of support, my jewelry, and all the cash in our bank accounts.”
“Are you bullshitting me? You’re making this up.”
She laughed, and said, “I’m not! I went to sleep a happy housewife, and woke up penniless and alone. This was forty years ago. I look back in disbelief that it actually happened to me. But it did. I lost everything. My shrink says it’s why I grew up to be such a collector. I cling out of fear.”
“How do you recover from something like that?”
“I just did,” she said. “I moved into my parents’ house. The timing turned out to be good. I was there when they needed me at the end of their lives. After they died, I spent months cataloging the furniture and the art—they were collectors. I researched the providence of some of the pieces, and realized I enjoyed doing it. My parents hoped I’d share their passion, but it wasn’t until they were gone that I got into it, and eventually became an early-American-furniture appraiser at Sotheby’s. I had boyfriends—historians, collectors, and curators. I traveled all over the world. But I never fell in love again after Rufus.”
“Rufus?”
“I know, silly name. Like a shaggy dog or something. He did have shaggy hair—he was a bit of a beatnik. So was I! I rebelled against my parents, ran off with a poet. And then he ran off with a stewardess.”
Demi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You let me whine about James for months, while you’ve been sitting on all this amazing stuff?”
“I like your stories! I know mine already, and I get so tired talking about myself. My theory is that, when you’re born, you’re an egomaniacal narcissist. Every day you’re alive, you care less and less about yourself. If you live long enough, you get so sick of yourself that you’re relieved when you die.”
“Where do you think I am, on the egomaniacal narcissist scale?”
“You’re exactly where you should be,” said Catherine, with a sly smile. “Tell me again about your day in court, but this time, add La
w and Order theme music and ka-chung sound effects.”
The sound of bells drew their attention to the street. A dozen bike riders pulled up to the curb at the Grace. The rider in front removed her helmet.
“Sarah?” asked Demi, standing up. The other riders took off their helmets, too. Eve, Jo, and a bunch of their other friends.
Sarah laid her bike down on the grass, and came over to give Demi a tight hug. “We heard what happened. I still feel like it’s my fault. If we hadn’t made that joke about James, you wouldn’t have gone off with Warren, and the cop wouldn’t have pulled you over.”
“It’s not your fault! It’s mine. I shouldn’t have been driving.” That night, or any other night. In a way, she was glad she lost her license so she’d never do it again. Mary’s honesty had gotten under her skin. You should be thrilled. After meditating on it for a couple of days, she agreed wholeheartedly. To Sarah, she asked, “What’s all this? Hey, guys!” She waved at the other riders.
“We’re heading down to First @ Second. It’s the last day, and we thought you’d want to check it out.”
Her heart grew two sizes. Her friends rounded up a bunch of bikes so they could ride to the festival with her, a show of solidarity she never expected. “We’ll be the world’s wimpiest biker gang.”
Catherine said, “Go ahead, Demi. Wally and I can polish off the chicken.”
Demi ran upstairs to get her helmet and bike. Then they were off, riding in rows of two on the streets, ringing their bells and intimidating no one all the way to the beach.
* * *
The food festival was crowded and hot with rows upon rows of brightly, post-ironically painted food trucks and carts catering to every conceivable taste, from French truffle grilled cheese to bowls of Vietnamese pho. You had to stand on line for an hour to get a soggy breakfast burrito or a few measly pot stickers. But as an event, First @ Second was a massive success, well attended and well organized. When Demi ran into Maya, she told her so. She also apologized for being a punk, and wished Maya all the success in the world. Maya was grateful and relieved to clear the air with Demi, but she didn’t offer her her old job back. Just as well. They hugged it out by the Asian pizza truck, but then Maya had to go put out a fire. Literally. The Oinkwich barbecue was going up in flames.
Demi and her posse spent a couple of hours at the festival, eating, not drinking, and making fun of the foodies and their gusty, precious, and snotty descriptions of every dish’s ingredient and preparation. Demi loved food. Cooking was her passion. But foodies? Meh.
Sarah said, “James is walking toward you.”
“Fool me once, bitch.”
“Seriously. He’s five paces away.”
“Yup, and he’s got Barack Obama and Jennifer Lawrence with him.”
“He’s one step away. He’s here. It’s happening.”
“Bullshi…”
A tap on her shoulder, and the voice she knew all too well in her ear. “Have you tried the churros?”
Demi turned around. There he was, the man who’d been the epicenter of her universe for three years. The man who stomped on her heart and had no right to look as groin-achingly sexy on such a hot sweaty day in the J.Crew navy shorts and striped shirt she bought for him a while back. Demi reached up to touch her hair, which was a tangled mess from riding. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup. Her shorts and T-shirt were baggy and food-stained. In her daydreams about this moment, she wasn’t such a slob.
“Hello” was all she could muster.
“Hello, yourself.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. An electric current raced from her neck straight to her crotch. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”
She looked around, trying to find someone. “Where’s your bimbo?”
“I’m alone,” he said. “I’ve been alone since you left.”
That might be true. On her Instagram, she’d been trying to give the impression that she was living it up. His feeds included likes and links, but nothing personal. Not even a photo of a nice plate of food or a cute dog. If he were hitting some hot girl, James would want his followers to know.
He said, “You must have been busy lately. You haven’t posted any pictures. I was worried something happened. Or someone.”
Did she tell him she’d been off the grid on the advice of her attorney? It wasn’t any of James’s business. She caught Sarah’s eye. Her friend mimed dragging her away. Demi shook her head. She’d sobered up in more ways than one over the last couple of weeks, and Demi was no longer vulnerable to James’s dubious charms. But it would still be nice to get some closure.
“I have questions,” she said bluntly. “And I deserve answers.”
“I need to talk to you, too.” James bowed his head slightly, as if he were ashamed of himself for the way he behaved. If he were so contrite, why hadn’t he sought her out before?
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“It’s kind of hectic here.”
“So where?” she asked.
“Our place?”
“Your place.” His apartment was closer. Besides, she didn’t want him to know where she lived.
“Let’s go.”
Sarah stopped her. “Are you sure?”
“It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him,” said Demi.
Her friend didn’t look convinced.
demi’s jerk chicken
SERVES 8
ingredients
1 tbsp ground allspice
1 tbsp dried thyme
1 tbsp sage
zest of 1 lemon
1 tbsp cumin
1 tbsp salt
½ tbsp red chilli flakes
2 tbsp agave
1 tbsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsps ground nutmeg
8 garlic cloves, peeled
2 bunches scallions, chopped
two 1-inch cubes fresh ginger
1 bunch fresh cilantro, leaves only
1 cup fresh lime juice
¼ cup tamari sauce
¼ cup sesame oil
3 packages organic free-range chicken thighs (or breasts)
instructions
1. In a good blender, add all of the ingredients (minus the chicken) and blend until smooth.
2. Place the chicken in a plastic container with an air-proof lid, then cover with the marinade. Toss around the chicken and make sure all of it is coated evenly.
3. Cover the container with a lid and leave in the fridge for 24 to 48 hours—yes that’s 1 to 2 days.
4. Once the chicken has successfully marinated, pop the chicken on the grill 6 to 8 minutes each side or bake at 375 degrees for 35 minutes.
Enjoy with some steamed rice and veggies and get carried away to Jamaica, mon!
11
i’m not here to make friends
“Are you Sophia?” asked the flight attendant.
“Yes.”
“I have a meal for you.”
“I didn’t buy one.” She’d glanced at the plane food menu, and decided against it. She’d rather eat peanuts and pretzels for free than pay twenty dollars for the “meat plate.” Although it did look appetizing.
The flight attendant checked her tablet. “It’s already been paid for by M. King Studios.”
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” They bought me lunch? She didn’t want to let on that she was surprised. Play it cool! Sit like a star.
The flight attendant handed her a cardboard box. She opened it and found a ham and cheese sandwich.
Sophia was on her way to Los Angeles for the second time in a month. Her Hipsters audition tape, shot by Harriet and emailed to the production team with five minutes to spare, did not, apparently, suck. An hour after she sent it in, Agnes called. In a hysterical, hyperventilating lather, she told Sophia that she’d been invited to “test” for the part of Valerie, which was the next level of hoop jumping. A callback! In all her years of auditioning, Sophia had never been tested for anything, which was itself a test of her enduranc
e and commitment.
As she happily snacked, Sophia had a déjà vu. A few rows back, the flight attendant said, “It’s been paid for by M. King Studios.” Sophia leaned over the seat to look down the center aisle in coach. The flight attendant handed a box to someone. A slender brown arm with multiple bangles reached to take it.
Sophia faced forward again. She wrapped her sandwich for the time being, unbuckled her seat belt, and walked down the aisle to the bathroom. She had to size up the owner of that arm. The girl was her age, also multiethnic, gorgeous, with a similar girly personal style. Just like Sophia, she seemed amazed by the good fortune to get a free lunch.
This girl was her competition, and possibly the only other ethnically ambiguous young, pretty female actor in all of Toronto. Did the producers have a thing for Canadians? Or maybe there were dozens of girls all over North America eating ham sandwiches right now, and winging to LA to test for the same part.
Locking the bathroom door, Sophia focused on her eyes in the mirror. Men had told her often enough that her eyes were a dark bottomless mystery. She stared at them, and into herself, to find calm and strength. “You got this,” she said.
The statement felt real and true. It would have been more appropriate if the rush of confidence came, say, after climbing a mountain and not in a cramped airplane bathroom. The setting was irrelevant. She met herself in her reflection. The girl staring back at her showed steely resolve. She might not get the part, but it wouldn’t be because she psyched herself out of it with fear. Sophia went back to her seat, grinning with her purpose. Relax. Walk like a star. Know the part is already yours. They could bring in ten girls, a hundred. It didn’t matter. She had this.
The plane landed at LAX. Sophia, along with the rest of the passengers, headed toward baggage claim, past Burger King and Starbucks, and then to the airport exits. A row of drivers in black suits, white shirts, and ties stood by the doors holding up signs or tablets with names on them, including hers. Sophia approached her driver, giddy. The car and driver, like the sandwich, had been unexpected. She handed her overnight bag to her driver, and noticed out of the corner of her eye the girl with the ‘fro doing the same exact thing to her driver. Sophia quickly read the name on his sign—Leslie Abbott.
Bliss Page 13