“This is what I want to do,” Gemma told me, her eyes shining. “I want to be onstage, be funny for people, make them happy, make them laugh. This is perfect and now—thanks to you!—I can actually go. I’m signing up tomorrow.”
I was thrilled. This was the first thing approaching enthusiasm I’d seen from her since she’d voted to go home to Minnesota.
“I think you should.” I took my guitar from her. I was ready to call it a night.
The next day was the first organizing committee meeting for Wait/Great, and I was hoping to get a call about the Menchie’s job.
“I will,” Gemma declared. Then she dropped a bit of a bomb. “I think you should do it with me.”
Gemma’s delivery was so deadpan that I thought right then and there that she might have a future in stand-up.
I shook my head, then slid my guitar under my four-poster bed. “Improv? Nope. I’m not that funny.”
Gemma made a face. “Come on. This is Los Angeles. All you have to do is look good. And besides, it’ll be a great way to meet hot guys.”
Yikes. Meeting hot guys was her real motivation?
My sister laughed again. “Just kidding!”
Maybe. Maybe she was just being a junior comedienne. Or maybe she wasn’t.
CHAPTER SIX
“There’s a Sig Alert on the 405 north at Mulholland, backing up all the way to the 10; if you can take Sepulveda, do so. Otherwise, slog on through to the top of the hill, and then it opens up wide. This is KNX 1070, traffic and weather together.”
As I inched the Saturn north on the 405, about a half mile shy of Mulholland Drive, I could confirm there was a Sig Alert. That’s Southern California–ese for a massive traffic jam, after some guy named Loyd Sigmon, who was one of the first traffic reporters in the city back when dinosaurs roamed the earth in the 1950s.
Angelenos might not know who their member of Congress is, but they sure know what a Sig Alert is.
It was the next morning, and I was heading to Menchie’s. I’d emailed my application the night before, and at eight a.m. I’d gotten a call from Mr. Weinstein, the manager, asking me to come for an eleven a.m. interview. I wasn’t even nervous; I was psyched. I wasn’t freaked out by the traffic, either, since I’d left Ricardo’s mansion super early.
I’d chosen what I thought were appropriate job interview clothes—a navy skirt with a lighter blue cotton top, and a short red jacket over my blouse. Back at Mankato East High School, it had been drilled into us in Family Living class that even if you’re applying for a job at McDonald’s, you should go to the interview looking professional.
I looked professional. I’d chosen my outfit with care, done my makeup with care, and arranged my extensions-enhanced blond hair artfully. Even Gemma—who was hoping to take her first improv class that very afternoon if transportation could be arranged—approved. Her comment when I’d gone down to breakfast? “Wow.”
As KNX had promised, the freeway cleared once I inched past the jackknifed tractor-trailer blocking the four right lanes. Yes, four lanes. The 405 freeway is five lanes wide, and there are still tie-ups. Go figure.
From there, it was smooth sailing to Studio City, and I stepped through the front door of Menchie’s right at eleven. A mom and her two kids were walking out, all clutching yogurt cups. A short, balding man wearing a sport jacket and slacks was standing behind the counter with his back to me. Had to be the manager.
I called to him softly. “Mr. Weinstein? I’m Natalie Shelton.”
Mr. Weinstein turned around. “Can I help you?”
Could he help me? He’d invited me here for the job interview.
Well, maybe he was absentminded, or forgot. Like they taught in Family Living, I took the initiative. “I’m Natalie Shelton, I’m here about the job. It’s good to meet you.”
I walked to him and extended my hand for a good, old-fashioned businesslike handshake; Mr. Weinstein shook it firmly. That was a good sign, I thought.
“Nice to meet you, Natalie. Do you want an application?”
Whoa. This guy might have looked official, but he was hopelessly disorganized if he didn’t remember me. Maybe he was dealing with a crisis in his family or something. My mother always said to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.
“I filled in the online one and sent it in last night,” I reminded him gently. “You called me at eight this morning, remember?”
Mr. Weinstein peered at me closely for a moment. “Oh! Natalie! That’s right. You’re Natalie Shelton. Bad news, Natalie Shelton. You have a great application. Good work ethic, good references. But the thing is, I can’t use you.”
“Excuse me?”
Had I just been turned down for the job without even a real interview, after I’d been invited in that same morning?
“I know it must be very surprising.” Mr. Weinstein tapped his fingers on the counter. “It was surprising to me, too. But I hired someone just before you got here. It was someone that, well, let’s just say I owed her father one. Natalie, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll keep your application on file in case we get another opening, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yes. It’s fine. That would be fine.”
I don’t know where I got the gumption to keep my voice professional and my body from sagging. I’d heard of being passed over, of someone else getting the gig instead of you. But like this? I was crushed.
Mr. Weinstein flashed a winning smile. Ha. There was a bit of a spinach omelette stuck to one of his incisors. Not that I was feeling vindictive. Not even a little bit.
That’s sarcasm.
“You want a frozen yogurt to go?” he asked solicitously.
“Uh, no thank you.”
I fled.
I know I shouldn’t have been that rattled by the experience, but I was, which is why I sat in the Saturn for a few minutes before heading back over the hill. How could he have treated me so badly?
I couldn’t believe it. Nepotism. Just like my parents were ready to use their connections to help me get a good internship, Mr. Weinstein had given the job to someone he knew. Someone who probably hadn’t done anything on her own to get the job.
Well. At least it wasn’t something I’d done.
Feeling better now that I’d figured it out, I started the Saturn and pulled onto Ventura Boulevard. Of course that was the moment Brett called from the set of Working Stiff. As soon as I saw his number pop up on my phone, I pulled into an empty parking space to talk. I do have one of those Bluetooth hands-free cell-phone thingies, but let’s face it: even that kind of conversation can be distracting. With Brett Goldstein, you’re talking highly, highly distracting.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Hi yourself.” His voice was deep and resonant. “And hello from the lovely studios of Working Stiff in beautiful downtown Studio City. How’s my favorite minister’s daughter?”
“If you’re at work, I’m five minutes away,” I told him.
“Really? How come?”
“I was interviewing for a job that I didn’t get.”
“A job interview?” Brett’s voice was curious. “I’ve got a few minutes. Tell me what’s going on. I’d invite you here, but I’m just on a short break.”
I talked. I started with our dinner together, and my embarrassment about not being able to offer to split the check. I took the story through my first visit to Menchie’s, the call from Mr. Weinstein, and that day’s non-interview.
When it was over, he whistled. “Annoying the dude wasted your time. But can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. What?”
“If you were looking for work, why didn’t you talk to me? I know a ton of people who could help you, with much better jobs than weighing fro-yo at Menchie’s.”
My voice got small. It all sounded so familiar. It was the Brett version of the offer my parents had made. “I guess. But I wanted to do this on my own.”
Brett laughed. “Because you’re Natalie Shelton from Mankato, Minnesota. I get that, too.
Well, go for it. But if you change your mind, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So, will you let me do at least one thing for you that has nothing to do with work?”
“Maybe.” I hoped I sounded coy.
“What are you doing at three-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Sleeping!” I laughed. “That is, unless I’m kept awake by unbearable waves of existential anxiety.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Fair enough. If you’re not in angst hell? Set your alarm for three. I’ll be outside at three-thirty. I’m going to take you someplace great.”
“Omigod. What are you wearing?”
Alex’s jaw fell open when she saw me in my interview clothes.
“An outfit for an interview. A job interview, actually.” I tried to muster as much dignity as I could.
“With who? The Salvation Army?”
She cracked up, which made me crack up, which made her laugh even more, and then the two of us were out of control, laughing and laughing until Alex put her hands over her face and begged for no more, it was making her incision hurt.
Just after I’d clicked off with Brett, Alex had texted me and asked if I wanted to come over. There was no traffic going that way on the 405, so the ride was a breeze. Alex had said just to come around to the back; I saw her immediately. She was facedown on a chaise lounge, wearing a sleek black maillot and earbuds, rocking out to her iPod. She seemed so content that I just sat nearby, watching the swallowtail butterflies that flitted around us, until she opened her eyes.
That was when the fashion commentary began.
“Seriously. What kind of interview would you dress like that for?” Alex was quizzical. “No. Let me guess. An internship that your mom set up. Okay. I take it back. You’re excused.”
It pained me to tell her the truth. “Umm … do you know Menchie’s?”
She stared at me. “Menchie’s? The frozen yogurt place? That’s what you wore for an interview at Menchie’s?”
When I nodded, she giggled. She stopped when she saw that this time I wasn’t laughing with her.
“How should I have dressed?” I asked. “I mean, don’t you want to look professional?”
Alex took in my full ensemble again. “Not that I’d ever work at a yogurt shop, but I know something about how to present yourself in Los Angeles, and that’s not it. You’re planning to apply for other jobs?”
“I am,” I acknowledged.
“Then I think there’s something we need to do this afternoon.” Alex wrapped herself in a black silk robe and slipped some flip-flops onto her feet. “We eat—Shep’s making some sort of super salad inside—we change, and we’re out of here.”
“Where?” I asked nervously.
“Shopping expedition,” Alex declared as we started up the steps to the house. “We’ll talk about it during lunch.”
Oh no. Forget it. I’d already let Alex treat me to a spa day at the Mondrian. No way was I going to let her buy me a new wardrobe. We cut through the Samuelses’ spectacular dining room—gunmetal glass-topped table, matching chairs, and a fantastic abstract painting on the far wall—and into the gleaming kitchen. Shep had set the butcher-block table for three, with a red linen tablecloth, fine-china place settings, wine- and water glasses, and a bottle of imported French cider chilling in an ice bucket.
Now Shep was dicing shrimp behind the counter. He wore jeans, a black sleeveless T-shirt that revealed newly buffed-up arms, and a backward black baseball cap. It was hard to believe this was the same guy I’d once found in my room stark naked save for a GPS tracking ankle bracelet, playing my guitar in a drug-induced state.
He dumped the shrimp into a huge wooden salad bowl and brought it to the table, all the while taking in my interview outfit. I gazed into the salad. Shrimp topped fresh lettuce and arugula and was surrounded by a ring of peeled and sliced cucumbers. Yum. Already there were a cheese plate and fresh popovers.
“What’s with the getup?” he asked.
“Job interview,” Alex explained.
“At a mortuary?” Shep joked.
“At Menchie’s,” I confessed sadly. I was beginning to believe that not getting the job had nothing to do with nepotism and everything to do with sartorial misjudgment. “I know. I wore the wrong thing. Your sister wants to fix that.”
“I want to take her shopping this afternoon,” Alex told her brother. “But she’s not exactly enthusiastic.”
“I don’t like being a charity case. It’s why I want a job.” I defended myself in between bites of the freshest shrimp I’d ever tasted. “No more free spa days, Alex.”
“I paid nothing at the Mondrian. It was all comped,” Alex retorted.
Shep scratched his clean-shaved chin and then swung his chair toward me. When he spoke, his voice was deadly serious. “I understand why you don’t want Alex to take you clothes shopping. I even agree with you. Kinda sorta. So don’t do it for her. Do it for me. When she was in the hospital, you were a godsend, and I don’t use that word lightly. You were my eyes, my ears, and my lifeline. Give me the chance to show my appreciation.”
I held up a hand of protest. “You don’t need to thank me. That’s what friends do.”
“Actually, I do need to thank you. And I frankly think the world would be a better place if more people spent more time showing their appreciation with deeds as well as words.” Shep smiled gently. “I bet your mother the minister would agree with me.”
What could I say? He was right about the thanks, and he was right about my mom.
Well, maybe I could turn something he wanted me to do, and Alex wanted me to do, into something that I wanted to do.
“Okay,” I allowed. “On two conditions.”
Alex put down her fork. “What’s that?”
I grinned at her. “First, it can’t be until late this afternoon. I have a meeting at the church at four.”
“Fine,” Alex said. “What else?”
“This needs to be a three-way expedition. If she’s free, and you don’t mind, I want you to meet my friend Mia.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I guess since I’m the president of the youth group, I’ll start,” Sandra announced. She wore black jeans and a demure white long-sleeve shirt to the meeting. “Welcome to the first organizing meeting of To Wait Is Great. Or, as Minister Marsha calls it, Wait/Great.”
“Should we open with a prayer?” Gisela Seedorf, a willowy girl with ultra-short blond hair and limpid blue eyes, suggested. I’d met Gisela a couple of times. Her father was the consul general for Germany here in Los Angeles and also had a huge job with Lufthansa Airlines. Her mother was a former high-fashion model and a full-time volunteer. Gisela had struck me as nice enough, but pretty boring.
“Great idea!” Sandra exclaimed. She turned to me. “Want to lead it, Nat?”
I shook my head. “You do it.”
It was four o’clock. Sandra, Courtney, Gisela, Mia, and I, along with a couple of new girls, were in the youth lounge at the church for that first planning meeting of Wait/Great. I’d budgeted an hour and a half for this meeting. Then Mia and I were going to meet Alex at a place on West Third Street to go shopping. After that, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to stay up too late, since Brett would be picking me up in the middle of the night to go God-knew-where.
At least I’d changed out of my never-to-be-worn-again interview clothes. Now I was wearing green military-style shorts and a black T-shirt, which felt mercifully cool. Mia had on a red-and-black shift dress that looked beautiful against her ebony skin. What was kind of funny was that we were both wearing the same el-cheapo black flip-flops.
The youth lounge was a magnificent space, with high ceilings, huge windows, and a professional sound system. There were billiards, Ping-Pong, and Foosball tables, along with a secluded area for movie screenings, plus multiple conversation areas with comfortable chairs and couches. We’d settled down in one of these conversation pits and raided the kitchen for c
hips and juice before we started.
What was cool was that we were on our own. My mother was upstairs in her office, and the junior minister, Mr. Bienvenu, had barely checked in before departing to visit the church day care. Wait/Great was truly in our hands.
Sandra offered a brief prayer, asking God and Jesus for guidance as we started our work. There would surely be bumps in the road, but God’s love would see us through.
I closed my eyes and offered another, silent prayer.
Dear God, I have no business being part of a group that tells kids that to wait is great, since I wasn’t so great at waiting myself. Why would anyone listen to me? Why should anyone? Why would anyone even want me here if they knew the truth? I know I should never be praying for this, but please help me keep my secret a secret.
“So let’s begin,” Sandra declared as I opened my eyes. She slung her legs up over the arm of her easy chair.
“How about if the newcomers introduce themselves?” Courtney suggested.
One of them turned out to be a nice girl who I thought could be my friend. Her name was Kiley, she’d grown up just across the border from Minnesota in La Crosse, Wisconsin, and she worked as a nanny for the rock star Platinum. Kiley said she’d started coming to church as a way to get some balance into her life. The other girl was Charma Christensen. Charma Christensen didn’t look like a Charma Christensen, having been adopted at birth from Korea. She was an incoming freshman at USC who wanted to major in bio.
Then Sandra asked us what we thought our goal should be. To my surprise, Mia raised her hand first. “Our goal is simple. You guys know that my father is Big Jam. What we’re trying to do here is head off the next generation of Big Jams. One Big Jam is enough.”
Everyone laughed.
“I think we ought to think big,” Sandra suggested. “We should aim for a Wait/Great chapter in every church in the city within a year. Every church in the state within two years. Every church in the country within five years. I know that’s ambitious. But keeping kids away from drinking, drugging, and sexing? It’s that important.”
Little Lies Page 5