Dollhouse

by Kim; Khloé Kardashian Kourtney

  Or was he talking about what happened later, after she was married to David?

  Whatever it was, she didn’t want to talk about it now. “What are we going to do about her?” she said helplessly.

  “Let’s do what the good headmaster suggested. Let’s help her to get her grades up.”

  “Sure. But how?”

  “Why don’t we hire a tutor to help her out?” Beau suggested.

  “Oh!” Kat lit up. “That’s actually a really good idea!”

  Beau chuckled. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment?”

  “It is! So how do we find a tutor? I guess we could go online, or maybe Pippa knows somebody, or—”

  “What about Benjy?”

  “Our Benjy?”

  “Our Benjy. Lookit . . . he’s a straight-A student. He and Kyle are in a lot of the same classes here, so he’d be familiar with the material. He’s got a load of patience. And he’s been talking about wanting to make some extra money, right?”

  “True. I was thinking he might want to bus tables at the restaurant. But I guess tutoring would be a better fit for him?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kat nodded slowly. Beau was right. Benjy was the perfect candidate for the job.

  Of course, they would have to talk to Kyle about all this ASAP, informing her that she was going to have to commit to these tutoring sessions with Benjy (if he agreed to them), put her nose to the grindstone, and achieve a respectable GPA, or else. Kat was not looking forward to that conversation. Frankly, she didn’t look forward to any conversations with Kyle these days.

  Kat remembered when Kyle was born, how sweet she was, how she just wanted to nurse and cuddle all day long. Her first word was mama, and when she was three, she told Kat in her adorable toddler lisp that she was her “bestest friend, forever and ever and ever.” When she was in elementary school, Kat and David used to call her “Cinderella” because she was so helpful and well behaved and eager to please.

  When did things go wrong? The darkness seemed to have seeped into Kyle’s personality soon after David’s death. Kyle had adored her father, who had pampered her maybe more than the older girls because she was the baby. In some ways, Kyle had taken his death the hardest, by not grieving properly or giving herself a chance to heal. She hadn’t even cried at the funeral, or any time after, that Kat was aware of.

  When Kyle was thirteen, Kat caught her smoking pot in her room. Actually, not just smoking pot . . . she was showing little Bree, age seven, how to roll a joint.

  When Kyle was fourteen, she started sneaking out of the house, stuffing pillows under her blankets and slipping out a side door. Once, Kat caught her trying to sneak back in, dressed in a sequined minidress that barely covered her privates and carrying a fake ID with the name Bobby Brown, age twenty-one.

  And worst of all . . . when Kyle was fifteen, and Kat and Beau were away for the weekend, she stole the family’s brand-new navy Range Rover and drove it to a P. F. Chang’s in Marina del Rey to meet up with a bunch of friends. Unfortunately, the restaurant happened to share a parking lot with a hotel, and some woman happened to be in one of the hotel rooms at the time, hooking up with a man who wasn’t her husband. The husband showed up and angrily set fire to the boyfriend’s car. The Rover was parked next to that car and caught fire as well. Kyle had been so afraid of Kat and Beau’s wrath that she hadn’t come home for almost forty-eight hours. And rightly so; they ended up grounding her for three months. (Kat had wanted six months, except that Beau had pointed out to her—privately, gently—that the incident had occurred on the exact anniversary of David’s death.)

  And now Kyle was sixteen. And things didn’t seem to be getting any better.

  But what was the solution? Kat had suggested therapy to Kyle several times, including family therapy, and Kyle had adamantly refused. Maybe a new school? Or music lessons, to give her a creative outlet? What was the answer?

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Beau tipped her face up to his. “Honey? You okay?” he whispered.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re crying. What is it?”

  “It’s just that . . . oh, I don’t know. This stuff really gets to me. Kyle, the kids.”

  “Which kids?”

  “It’s mostly Kyle. But I’m worried about Kamille and Kass, too. Kamille thinks she’s going to become a supermodel, which sounds totally pie-in-the-sky to me. I mean, of course she’s gorgeous. But that’s like me wanting to become a four-star Michelin chef or having my own Food Network show. And Kass—well, Kass is perfect, which is a problem, because really, that girl needs to loosen up and live a little, and I don’t know why she and Parker Ashton-Gould didn’t hit it off.” Kat sighed. “Plus, I think I might be going through menopause.”

  “Menopause? Um, aren’t you a little young for that?”

  “I’m forty-four. Pippa’s my age, and she’s been getting symptoms for a while now. Like just the other day, she was telling me that she’s been feeling really, really dry down there, and—”

  “Whoa, ixnay! Too much information!”

  Kat laughed. “Sorry.”

  “So does this mean our sex life is going to, you know, slow down?” Beau joked.

  “Is that all you care about?” Kat punched him in the arm.

  “Yes.” Beau leaned over and kissed her neck. And her ear.

  “Beau LeBlanc, what are you doing?”

  As his mouth found hers, she wished they were alone somewhere, and not in a very public courtyard at a high school. Their children’s high school. “Okay, enough,” she protested feebly. “Mr. Leibowitz is going to have us arrested.”

  “Good. Let him,” Beau whispered, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse.

  “Beau!”

  Menopause was definitely not going to slow them down.

  Chapter Seven

  Kamille

  Kamille’s phone began ringing in the middle of Some Like It Hot, which was one of her (and Kass’s) favorite films of all time. She and Simone were hanging out at the house, drinking a pitcher of midori sours and discussing who looked hotter in a dress, Tony Curtis or Jack Lemmon. Kamille had left Kass a message telling her to get her butt home ASAP so she could watch the rest of the movie with them.

  “Is that your loser sister calling?” Simone sniped as she tossed back the rest of her drink. She poured herself another, picked up her own phone, and began texting.

  “That’s nice, Simone. You talk like that about Kassie again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Seeing Giles Sinclair’s name on the caller ID, Kamille hit the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Kamille? It’s Giles Sinclair. Do you have a minute? I have some news.”

  Kamille sat up. The guy worked fast! She had met him exactly a week ago; since then, he had arranged for her to do a test shoot at a supercool photo studio in Culver City and promised to send the pictures out to prospective clients. And he was already calling her with news?

  Kamille dug around for the remote, which was buried under a pile of silk pillows, and turned down the volume. “Hey, Giles. What’s up?” she said eagerly.

  “Jeunesse is launching a new perfume, and they want to use you for their ad campaign!”

  “Whaaaaaat?” Kamille jumped to her feet. Jeunesse, the famous French perfume maker, wanted her for their new ad? “Are you joking? You’re not joking, are you?” she said breathlessly to Giles.

  Giles chuckled. “No, love, I’m not joking. I just got off the phone with them. I must warn you, though, it’s a bit of a rush schedule. They’d originally signed another model for the job, but she had to drop out at the last minute because she just got LASIK eye surgery done. She didn’t realize she can’t wear eye makeup for two weeks after. Anyway, they want to do the photo shoot next Tuesday so they can make the October issues.”

  “Next Tuesday?” That was only four days away.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Yes! I mean, no! Next Tuesday’s perfect!”


  “Super! I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning, catching up on some stuff. Why don’t you come by and we can go over the paperwork together? Say, ten o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there. Ohmigod, Giles, I love you!”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased, Kamille. And get used to it, because this is just the beginning. Once this ad comes out, my phone’s going to be ringing off the hook. Everyone’s going to want to use that lovely face of yours.”

  “Ohmigod! Thank you so much!”

  Kamille said good-bye and hung up, almost beside herself with excitement. Her mind raced with a frantic to-do list: total body and face wax; mani-pedi; haircut; facial; a two . . . no, three-day cleanse. No LASIK eye surgery obviously, ha-ha. It was hard to organize her thoughts with so much happening . . . and with so many midori sours in her system.

  “What’s up? You have to explain this movie to me, I have no idea what’s going on,” Simone said, cranking up the volume.

  “Giles got me a modeling job!” Kamille practically screamed.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I’m shooting a perfume ad for Jeunesse. Isn’t that the most awesome news, ever?”

  “Definitely. Wow, cheers!” Simone raised her empty glass in the air. “Crap, we need to make another pitcher. Hey, does this mean you get free Jeunesse stuff from now on?”

  Simone was obsessed with freebies, which made no sense, since her parents were zillionaires. Or her father was, anyway. He was the owner of the ultrasuccessful Pretty Me cosmetics company. He’d left Simone’s mom ages ago and moved to London, and Simone hadn’t reunited with him until high school, when he moved back to L.A. Kamille knew she liked getting her revenge on him for the years of neglect: by stealing his new (twenty-four-year-old) wife’s designer outfits out of her closet, having sex in them, and returning them stained . . . by marching into Pretty Me salons and demanding thousands of dollars of free products and free services . . . and in general being an attention-whore pain-in-the-ass.

  “I don’t know if I’m getting free Jeunesse stuff, Simone,” Kamille told her. “Anyway, who cares? Ohmigod, I can’t believe this is happening! I’ve gotta tell my mom!”

  “Yeah, your mom’s totally not a bitch like my mom. My mom would be, like, ‘Who’d you blow to get this job?’ ” Simone picked up Kamille’s phone and started scrolling through it. “Your mom’ll be superproud of you, though. She’ll probably buy you a new car or something.”

  Kamille blinked. Her mother, proud of her? She couldn’t remember the last time. The thing was, Kass was a hard act to follow. She was basically Miss Perfect. Kamille, on the other hand, led a more spontaneous, less OCD life. She was on her way to achieving great, amazing things. But “her way” wasn’t the same as Kass’s. Kass was all about pros-and-cons lists, schedules, plans. Kamille was about today, going with the flow, seizing opportunities.

  “Wait, why do you have Nola Harrison in your contacts list?” Simone said, scrolling. “Do you know what that witch did when she found out I hooked up with her boyfriend? She sent me a Tiffany box in the mail, full of dog shit.” She added, “I’m totally deleting her.”

  “Fine, whatever,” Kamille said distractedly.

  Simone squinted at Kamille’s phone. “Hey, your loser sister texted like half an hour ago. She said she’ll be home soon and that her, uh, ‘study group’ ran late. Study group, is that like an orgy for geeks? Although I doubt Kass ever gets any. She’s totally a virgin, right?”

  “What?”

  “Or a lesbian? Or is she just trying to look like a lesbian, with her baggy man shirts and nasty lip mustache and—”

  “Excuse me?”

  Kamille glanced up, startled. With the TV blaring and Simone blabbering, she hadn’t heard Kass come through the front door. Kass was standing in the living room doorway, clutching her backpack to her chest. She was glaring at Simone, her hazel eyes furious.

  “Hey, nerd, we were just talking about you! Take a load off!” Simone patted the spot next to her on the couch.

  “No, thank you. I don’t think I should sit that close to you, Simone, I might catch something. Kam, a word?” Kass said coldly.

  “Wait, what did she just say to me?” Simone huffed at Kamille.

  Kamille put her hands over her ears and shook her head. Tonight was her night. She deserved to bask in her news. The last thing she wanted to do was to play referee to Kass and Simone.

  “Both of you. Shut up. I want to celebrate,” Kamille said irritably.

  “Celebrate what?” Kass asked her.

  “Her hot British agent just called,” Simone said, flipping her long platinum hair over her shoulders. “He got her a big-ass modeling job. For that French perfume company . . . Jeunesse.”

  “Really?” Kass stared incredulously at Kamille. “Is this true?”

  “Of course it’s true. What, you think it’s a joke?”

  “No, no. It’s just that . . . oh, never mind! Congratulations!” Kass came over and hugged Kamille.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “We’re making more midori sours,” Simone told Kass. “You want one, right? Or are you going to wimp out as usual and have a Coke or whatever?”

  Kass ignored Simone. “I’ve gotta go study,” she explained to Kamille. “Sorry, big econ quiz on Monday.”

  “What? Kassie! It’s Friday night, and we’re celebrating, and . . . look!” Kamille pointed to the TV screen. “It’s your favorite scene! Osgood’s about to propose to Jerry!”

  “I know, I know. TiVo it for me, okay?”

  As Kass wandered down the hall to her room, Kamille wondered what was up with her. Sure, she’d walked in on Simone saying bitchy things about her behind her back. But that was Simone being Simone, and Kass must be used to it after all these years. Couldn’t she make an exception just this once and hang out with them? Kamille had just gotten the biggest news of her life.

  Or was something else bothering Kass?

  Chapter Eight

  Kyle

  “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is one of Tennessee Williams’s most famous plays,” Benjy told Kyle. “They made a movie out of it, too. Have you seen it?”

  “Cat on a hot tanned what?” Kyle said distractedly.

  She lay back on the chaise longue and admired her own awesome tan. Her legs looked especially stunning against the pale turquoise color of her new bikini, which she had conveniently gotten for free during last Saturday’s shoplifting spree at the mall. Kyle had never shoplifted before, but her friends Ash and Priscilla had talked her into it. It had been a blast, like playing an Xbox game, for real. It had also been surprisingly easy, due to the apparent epidemic of brain-dead security guards.

  “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” Benjy repeated. “We have a test on it in our lit class tomorrow. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kyle glanced sideways at Benjy, who was sitting cross-legged on the pool deck surrounded by a sea of notebooks, pens, and books, like some geek in a Staples ad. With his brown eyes and tall, lean frame, he looked a little like Beau, except for his I’m-too-much-of-a-nerd-to-bother-with-my-appearance vibe. His wavy light brown hair was long-ish and unruly, his gold-rimmed glasses were crooked, and his Korn T-shirt (really? Korn?) and khaki shorts were wrinkled, as though he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of laundry yet.

  Still, he was cute. Correction: he would be cute, if he wasn’t her stepbrother.

  “You did read it, right?” Benjy asked her.

  Kyle shrugged nonchalantly. “Can’t you just tell me what it’s about?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what your mom and my dad had in mind when they hired me to be your tutor.”

  “It’ll be our little secret, then.”

  Kyle still couldn’t believe that her mother and Beau had given her an ultimatum: show up for these biweekly tutoring sessions and reach a 3.0 average by the end of the trimester, or she would lose her car, phone, and computer privileges for the entire following trimester. Were they serious, threatening her lik
e that? Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do but go along with their diabolical plan. Or pretend to go along with it, anyway, until she could think of a better alternative.

  Benjy picked up his dog-eared copy of the play and began leafing through it. “Okay, so, did you read any of it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “I don’t know. Some girl named Maddy was bitching out some guy named Brett.”

  “Maggie. And Brick. They were probably having one of their big fights.”

  “About what?”

  “About his drinking. About his messed-up relationship with his dad. About his psycho sister-in-law who’s angling for the family fortune. About his dead best friend, Skipper, who may or may not have wanted to hook up with him. Oh, and speaking of sex, they fight a lot about that, too. She hasn’t gotten any from him in a long time.”

  Kyle raised her eyebrows. “Why not? The way she looked in that white dress? I totally would have hit that.”

  “Oh, so you did see the movie?”

  “Um, maybe?”

  Actually, Kyle had read the play last night, cover to cover, and had liked it so much that she had watched the movie on iTunes, staying up till 2 A.M. But she wasn’t about to tell Benjy that. It was a lot more fun, making him work for his ten dollars an hour or whatever her Evil-with-a-capital-E parental units were paying him.

  “And what did you think?” Benjy persisted.

  “It was okay. I could have done better, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kyle studied her nails, which were painted different shades of purple and black. “Like the chick who played the sister-in-law? I thought she was too over-the-top with that part. I would have toned it down, been more subtle. Yeah, Tennessee Williams’s lines were over-the-top to begin with. But why not play around with them, go deeper, give them some texture?”