This, my friends, is called growth.
Six hours later, I limp home. I can’t wait to walk in my front door and crawl up to bed. I have never been so tired in my whole life. “Hey, Mom,” I say weakly, and hobble past her, my eyes on the stairs, willing my legs to make it up.
She stops me. “What’s wrong with your ankles?”
I stop and lift one up. Blood has come through both socks. “Marta likes to whack my heels. It’s like some kinda cruel training tip her aunt picked up from the Russians back in the day.”
“Oh, baby,” she cries, “I am so sorry.” She dabs on Neosporin and covers them with Band-Aids. They feel cured already.
“Are you hungry? Of course you’re hungry! Sit, let me feed you.” She goes to the fridge and pulls out the most beautiful lasagna made in the shape of a coffin. “I’m practicing for the Halloween party. What do you think?”
Man, I love my mom sometimes. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes a lot. Especially times like these, when I’m hungry, tired, and she’s got a whole lasagna and a fork waiting for me.
Later that night, when Pen’s snoring and Felix has stopped playing pretend video games under his covers, I tiptoe out of my bed, grab my laptop. The magic of Google lights up before my eyes. I take a deep breath, not so sure I really want to know. But I do, I do want to know. I type in “Brown” (I don’t know his first name) “Laurel Canyon Graffiti Artist.” Then I type in “drugs.”
The screen lights up like a Christmas tree. Bobby’s dad’s name is Mercy, Merc for short. And then I remember the symbols Bobby was spraying over. They didn’t stand for Mercedes-Benz—they stood for Merc Brown. They were his symbols. He studied art at Yale. Was a painter. Moved out to LA to study street art in East LA. “His star was on the rise,” the article from the Times says, “and when he met famed music producer, blah, blah, blah, he became the number-one graphic artist in the industry, until he was recently fired.”
Why? I scroll down. “Why was he fired?” I click on the second article. I go to the bottom until I see the word drugs. I slap my computer shut. Marta is right. It is none of my business.
And yet.
I close my eyes but can’t sleep.
And yet, it is my business. We’re friends.
I pick my computer back up and write:
Bobby,
Now I get it. I’m here if you want.
I hit send and feel a whole lot better.
Own That Beam
Day three.
It’s dark again when I wake up for my last training session. I grab my flashlight and search for something to wear. Penelope finds me downstairs, watering the plants. I hear my toast pop up. “You want some toast?”
“Yeah, thanks.” She pulls out a chair, turns on her computer. Pen’s computer is actually newer than mine, which is so unbelievable I can barely mention it without feeling sick. “I’ve got to get this proposal finished by today.”
I line up four pieces of warm bread and slather on butter and watch it melt. Then I slather on Nutella and watch it cling to the butter like best friends. I take a bite of one just to see. Yep, it’s a trip straight to heaven. I hand her a plate. “So what’s the proposal about?”
“We have to get the city to stop handing out building permits in the canyons that are allowing them to kill our wildlife.” She nibbles. “Thanks.”
I inhale the next piece. “By wildlife you mean rats?”
She rolls her eyes and says, “You’re heartless.”
I take my plate to the sink. “Nah, I’m just kidding, Pen.” And that’s the truth. If Pen didn’t take up these dead-end causes, she’d be in my business 24/7, so I was one hundred percent behind it.
Half an hour later, Marta’s already abusing me. In fact, Marta has become so comfortable being the dominant one in our relationship that she screams from the top of her pink lungs and whacks me with a stick every time I see her. Her aunt sits in a recliner, feet up, People magazine in her lap, watching us like it’s totally okay that I’m being beaten to death. “Your cartwheel is sloppy. Your legs need to be straight, Charlie. How many times have I told you?” She pushes me. I slip on my own sweat and fall flat on my butt, slap! Marta tosses her stick down in disgust, goes inside, and pulls the door shut.
Then I look up and see Marta’s aunt standing over me. All I can think of is her mole and how it’s going to roll off her cheek and drop onto my face. “Gymnastics is not possible for you. You look like giant bag of soft Russian potatoes.”
She sees my crushed face. “You Americans think you can have talent if you wish on star. But you cannot.” She stirs her iced tea with her long, fake red fingernail. “We Romanians know working hard is the only way out. Give audition to Marta. She can make money for JOs and pay for manicure-pedicure.”
She’s right. I should give it to Marta. She would kill the audition. She needs the money.
Marta comes out. She sees the look on my face. “Again.”
I look into her eyes. “Marta, there’s something I want to ask you—”
“Not now.” She points her stick. “Practice leaps and dismount. You have to forget you’re off the ground, that’s all.”
I sit down, and I ask, “Do you want the audition? Because you can have it if you want it.”
Marta looks at me. She folds her arms over her chest. “I want the Olympics. That’s all I want. So please can we get on with this?”
I smile. “So you’re not jealous about the audition?”
“Me?” She pushes me to the beam. “No way. Now mount.”
A thousand pounds lifted just like that.
“Beam.” She points, and I go.
I get up and over the beam without leaning on my chest.
“Good.” She hits the stick.
I go into a straddle, lift one leg up, get up and try like heck to balance my shaking legs. I plant my hands and manage a pretty good cartwheel. I do another, gaining confidence, and then another. I can’t believe I haven’t fallen. I do a little bouncing thing I copied from Nadia Comăneci and then I ready myself for the dismount.
“Now cartwheel into roundoff,” she says. I judge my footing, and I plant my hands, do the cartwheel off the end, and land on both feet. I raise my hands like an Olympian. I watch her face. There is no expression. So I think:
• It was horrible.
• I’ll never make it.
• I want a jumbo bag of Doritos.
And then she claps, softly at first, and then hard like a grown man. Like Coach. “Brava! You did it.”
Yes! I hug her, fall back on the mat, and look up at the morning sky. “I did it.” One down. Two to go. And so far, Lillian and her crew have no idea at all. I’m practically home free.
I get up. My legs feel like jelly. I’m in so much pain, I don’t even notice that Greta’s been filming us all along.
One Down. One to Go.
As soon as the bell rings, I gear up to tackle the next major hurdle on my road to Hollywood. Paying for the head shots. I lunge for the door and run through the hallway before it gets mobbed with directionless tweens.
“Charlie!” Marta calls after me.
I ignore her. All I want to do is make it out of the upper yard and into my mom’s car.
But then, out of the blue, I hear Bobby’s voice. “Yo, Cooper, where you always running to so fast?”
There he is, carrying a basketball. “Where the heck have you been?” Those butterflies are instantly coursing through me. I’d waited for him at both Nutrition and lunch, but he wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. I even checked Graffiti Alley.
“Just had to disappear for a little while. My parents. It’s a mess,” he says like he’s struggling. I know that feeling. “You wanna take a walk?”
“Oh, man, Bobby, I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “But I can’t. My mom’s waiting for me.”
“Where are you going?” he says slowly, like he’s got nothing to do. Meanwhile I have millions of things to do. Fame isn�
��t just handed to you, you know? Hollywood doesn’t just open its doors. You have to break them down.
“Career stuff.” I try to move forward, but Bobby takes my backpack hostage.
I feel bad, I do. Believe me, if it weren’t MY DESTINY, I would hang with him for eternity. “Another time, all right?”
He takes the ball and slaps it against the wall. “Maybe I’ll ask Lola.”
I can feel the burn. But I pretend he didn’t say it and keep on walking.
Mr. L hears the smack of the ball. “The paint is white, Mr. Brown,” Mr. L says quietly. “No balls allowed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bobby just keeps bouncing the ball all the way down the hallway.
I take a deep breath and push my way to the door, which is now jammed with people who have no destiny at all. I slap myself. That was mean. But at least I didn’t say it out loud, right?
I scan the parking lot for my mom and find her in her car, dangling half on and half off the curb. Major no-no here at Happy Canyon. Mom sees me and honks twice. I’m about to run to her when, behind me, I hear Pen’s voice. I turn and see Felix running after her. I stare in disbelief. “I thought we were going alone?” I yell to no one, because clearly no one ever listens to me. This was supposed to be something I was going to do alone. With Mom.
Mom honks. She’s waving at us like a crazy woman. “Come on, I’m double-parked here! Bad karma, people.”
And then, to add insult to injury, Pen goes and jumps in the front seat. “What the heck?” I stand in the hot parking lot and yell at the top of my lungs, “Get out!”
“Come on, Charlie, don’t be a pill.” Mom shakes her head like it’s me being unreasonable when this is what Pen does all the time and then I get blamed for it.
“Are you serious?” I look at her. “What happened to this being just you and me?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Just get in!” Someone honks. Mom starts to sweat. “In now, or we’re going straight home.”
“This is so not fair!” I yank the back door open as hard as I can. I want the handle to fall off. I throw my bag against the seat. “I got stuff to do, Pen. Like get a job.”
Pen throws her hands up. “Technically it’s not a job.”
I want to strangle her. “If you make a scene—” Pen always made scenes at the Pumpkin Patch. Every year, from Malibu all the way to West LA. Nothing like an overpriced pumpkin mixed with underage labor to set her off.
“No scene,” Pen promises.
I pull myself up and squeeze into the empty space between Mom and Pen. “Mom,” I whisper sweetly.
“Yeees—” She knows what’s coming.
“In case they’re not hiring any more free child labor or if I don’t make enough in tips, you’ll loan me the rest? Right?” I beg like a pup. “I swear I’ll pay you back.”
Mom doesn’t look convinced. “I think it’s important for you to follow this through.”
“But Mom . . .” I pull myself way forward. “It’s basically a done deal. I’m going to make a fortune.”
“Live in the present,” she says quietly.
I hate that expression so much that it stops me from begging. I just slump back and stare out the window. That homeless guy is still on the corner of Sunset Boulevard. Today, he’s wearing old cowboy boots and brown cords and is playing a game with his one-eyed dog.
Pen lowers the mirror and checks out her mustache that grows faster than the lawn. “How much are the pictures?”
“A couple hundred bucks,” I lie. “But in less than a year, I could be in a limo wearing a phenomenal dress on my way to the Emmys.”
“I can give you my money, Charlie.” Felix pokes me with his pencil.
I’m momentarily speechless. Then I lean in so close I can smell his hair. “When I’m rich and famous,” I whisper, “I’m gonna remember you most of all.”
Mom’s still staring me down. “One way or the other, you’re going to have to earn it.”
Just the sound of that word earn gives me the shakes. It has such a horrible ring to it. Earn.
Mom slows at a stop sign. A homeless woman is babbling to herself. Mom looks at us in the rearview mirror. “Does anyone have any food left in their lunch box?”
Pen starts dipping into hers, Felix into his.
“Oh, God, please don’t.” I fall back in my seat.
“Kindness, Charlie.” She gets out. We watch her talk to the woman and hand her the bag of food. The woman takes it, opens it like she’s inspecting it carefully. And then, suddenly, she throws it right back in Mom’s face.
Pen is horrified. Felix doesn’t understand it. And me, well, all I see is Mom’s face. She’s stunned. And worse, she’s shaking. She walks back, gets in the car, and drives without explanation.
About half a block later, I can’t stand the silence anymore. I tap her shoulder. There’s food on it. I brush it off. “Why did she do that to you?”
“She said”—Mom pulls into the Pumpkin Patch lot—“I was disrespecting her with leftovers, which is fine.”
I throw my arms around her neck and hug her tightly.
She pats my hands. “I’m okay, Charlie, I’m okay. Come, let’s go.”
I don’t believe her. “You sure?”
“Your father and I backpacked through all of India and Tibet. I’ve had my fair share of food thrown in my face.”
I check her face and hair. “You should call the police.”
Mom hugs me. “It’s okay—go on ahead. I’ll meet you over there.”
“Yeah, go knock ’em dead, Charlie.” Pen smiles.
TRUE FACT: She’s enjoying this a little too much.
I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I’m a little nervous, I must confess. I’ve never had an actual job before. And it’s so dang hot the straw looks like it’s about to catch fire. Babies are screaming their high-pitched wails, kids are sweating through their Halloween costumes, and parents are melting behind their cameras. It’s like hell with pumpkins.
“Global warming sure has taken the fun out of Halloween.” Pen shields her eyes. “It’s so depressing coming to the Patch just to see all these pumpkins rotting out here in the sun.” She spots something on a pumpkin. “Look, maggots. Flies are leaving their eggs everywhere!”
Parents all around us scoop up their kids and run to the anti-bacterial stations. I elbow her hard. “You promised, remember?”
And then, as if God is not punishing me enough, I hear Lillian’s voice ringing through the heat waves. “Charlie Cooper? Is that you?” She’s flanked by her car and driver. Everyone knows her parents are a sickening team of Hollywood power, and when I say sickening, I mean fantastic. There’s no escaping it. Lillian comes bouncing over in an all-white sundress. She looks like a commercial.
“Hey, Charlie, Penelope, what are you guys doing here?” she says, all cool, like there’s no water under the bridge at all. But there is. There’s so much water I can barely look at her without feeling like I’m drowning.
“Charlie’s trying to get a job here.” Pen taps one of the pumpkins with the top of her toe. It rolls over. There’s a little tag that says forty dollars.
“Forty bucks!” Pen cringes.
“A job?” She’s immediately hooked. “Here?”
I want to kill her. I want to run over and stab her.
“Now why would Charlie need a job?” She’s pondering the question like it’s delicious.
“For head shots, of course.” Pen just keeps on digging the hole that’s going to bury me. “Now that she’s famous, they want her to do a TV show about gymnastics.”
No one would blame me for killing her right now.
Lillian looks curious. “My agent didn’t mention anything to me.”
TRUE FACT: Everyone’s got an agent in LA.
“They want her to be the evil dorky sister who tries to sabotage all the girls because they won’t give her a shot.”
Lillian looks relieved. “Yeah, I so don’t do evil dorky. But for you, Charlie,
it’s perfect.”
I want to sew her lips shut.
Lillian stops and cocks her head. “Weird they didn’t ask Marta. Do they know you can’t even do a cartwheel?”
Offensive. “I can so do a cartwheel. And they want someone not good—you get it?” I say angrily.
“I don’t know.” She kicks the dirt. “It’s so much easier to pretend you’re not good than pretend you’re good. And you, Charlie”—she taps me on the shoulder with each word—“don’t know the first thing about gymnastics.” Lillian narrows her eyes and watches the panic set into my face, sees me tighten my jaw. She’s tasted blood. She knows. “You have to tell her, Charlie.”
“Why?” Sweat drips down my face like tears. “Marta’s not interested. She’s training for the—”
“I told you,” she says with a deadly calm. “She’s not going to the JOs.” Lillian smiles with team captain certainty. “She’ll have lots of free time.”
“But”—I, too, plaster on a fake smile—“Coach really wants her to go.”
Lillian suddenly stabs her high heel right through a baby pumpkin. It goes all the way through.
Pen can’t take her eyes off the baby pumpkin stuck to Lillian’s shoe. “You just murdered a baby pumpkin. How could you do that—”
I cut Pen off. “Mom’s calling you.”
“All right, I’m going.” Pen backs away, her eyes on Lillian. “Hey, can we count on your support? For the wildlife corridor?”
She gives her two-thumbs-up. “Absolutely.” Pen runs off. Lillian takes the pumpkin off her shoe and holds it in her hands like a crystal ball. “I see a rosy future for us both.”
“Oh really?”
“You, with your own TV series, and me, as Coach’s pick for the JOs. And all either of us has to do is say nothing. Nothing.”
I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. It’s like she’s trying to crawl into my head. I start walking away.
But Lillian grabs my arm. She spins me around. “Did you know that in about”—she looks at her watch—“two hours, everyone from school, including Bobby, will descend on this place and see you shoveling pumpkin guts?”
Watch Out, Hollywood!: More Confessions of a So-called Middle Child Page 4