“You have a currrrfewwww? Awww . . . that’s so cuuuute!” she brayed.
Wow. I hadn’t realized real live drunk people were as annoying as they were in movies. When I got Mom on the phone she was still so thrilled about the fact that I was socializing with non-Film Society-related people that she told me to stay out as late as I wanted.
The first few minutes of the ride were uneventful. Relaxing even, because there was no traffic on Sunset Boulevard, which happens as often as snow in L.A. But as soon as Dylan started fooling around with my iPod, I knew there was going to be trouble.
“Um, Dylan, maybe you should just hang your head out the window and enjoy the fresh air,” I said as I tried to grab it away from her.
“Excuse me, but I’m not a dog. Plus it’s Saturday night—we need some tunes.”
Before I could stop her, “Cherry, Cherry” by Neil Diamond was booming out of the speakers. “Baby loves me, yes, yes she does,” Dylan screeched.
Once again, the shock of how bad her voice was almost made me swerve. She hadn’t been lying about her knowledge of Neil’s work. I had to admit it was impressive, because other than myself, I had never met anyone under the age of sixty who knew all the words to a Neil Diamond song.
“She got the way to groove me, Cherry baby,” she howled.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing—any and all coolness that Dylan Schoenfield had was nowhere to be found. Right before my very eyes she had turned into a complete and utter geek.
“Come on, Josh—sing with me,” she demanded, grabbing my arm and almost making me swerve into oncoming traffic.
“No, it’s okay—you seem to be doing a pretty good job soloing it.”
“But it’s no fun to sing alone. Please?”
“She got the way to move me,” I halfheartedly sang along with her.
“No—you have to really sing,” she ordered. “Otherwise it doesn’t count.”
“She got the way to groove me,” I sang louder.
“Cherry baby!” she screamed as she bounced up and down in her seat.
“Cherry baby!” I screamed louder.
We looked at each other and started cracking up. If anyone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be singing a Neil Diamond duet with the most popular girl in school while zooming down Sunset Boulevard at midnight on a Saturday in the Geekmobile, I would’ve said they were nuts. It was like something out of a John Hughes movie.
We had made our way through a pig-latin version of “Song Song Blue” and were just finishing up “Cracklin’ Rosie” as I pulled into her driveway.
“Omigod I haven’t laughed that hard in forever,” she said as I turned off the ignition. It seemed the combination of fresh air and singing had sobered her up, because she was no longer slurring. And there wasn’t a trace of her usual I’m-Dylan-Schoenfield-That’s-Why whininess.
“Me, either,” I agreed, fiddling with the camera case. “That was almost as funny as Annie Hall.”
She started twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Annie Hall . . . her name sounds familiar . . . didn’t she graduate last year?”
This time, instead of getting annoyed at her lack of Woody knowledge, I laughed. “No. Annie Hall isn’t a person. It’s the name of a Woody Allen movie.”
“Oh. Isn’t that from like a hundred years ago?”
I shrugged. “1977.”
“Never seen it. What’s it about?”
“About these two people who are complete opposites who fall in love,” I replied as I continued pulling at a loose thread on my case.
“Ooh—kind of like Knocked Up!” she said. “I loved Knocked Up!” She had twirled her hair so much that it had ended up in a knot. I almost pointed it out to her, but decided against it. There was something about seeing her look less than perfect that was refreshing.
“Um, sort of. It’s a classic. Voted number thirty-five on AFI’s list of Top One Hundred American Films of all time.” I pulled the camera out. “Is it cool if I film you for a bit?”
“Ew, I look hideous!” she said.
“No you don’t. Plus the way the moonlight is coming in the window is really cool. Spooky, like a John Carpenter movie or something.”
“Who?”
“He’s another director. So can I?”
She shrugged. “I guess so.” She sighed. She flipped down the mirror on the visor and started smoothing her hair and then stopped. “Oh, whatever—if I see it and think I look like a troll, I’ll just have you cut it out.”
As I focused in on her, she settled back in her seat and looked at me. “You really are a walking Wikipedia when it comes to movies, aren’t you?”
“I guess,” I said. This camera picked up everything, and as I zoomed in, I could see a big pimple on her chin that wasn’t noticeable before. Who would have thought Dylan Schoenfield had oil glands?
As I zoomed back out (I know I had said I wanted this to be as real as possible, but I also didn’t want to nauseate people), she sighed and a wistful look came over her face. It was weird how sometimes when people looked sad, they became even better looking. “I bet that’s a really cool feeling—to have something you’re so psyched about,” she said quietly. “You know, like a real passion. Something to write about on your college essays.”
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a hobby or something like that?” Seeing this other, more real side of Dylan was a little disconcerting. If someone who had it all figured out got bummed out, why were the rest of us even trying?
She shrugged. “No. Not really.” She fiddled with the fringe on her purse. “I mean, obviously I’m great at accessorizing and I definitely know what makeup color palettes work with different skin tones, but that’s not a hobby—that’s a . . . gift.” She looked up from her purse and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it’s like . . . when people see you a certain way, they don’t want you to change. They just want you to keep being that girl—the popular girl.”
I zoomed in closer. This was good stuff.
“The one who’s five minutes ahead of everyone with the clothes and the bags and the shoes and whatever,” she continued. “Believe me, if I were to chuck it all and go all boho hippy and stop shaving my legs, people would freak out. Not just because it would be disgusting, but because they expect me to be . . . well, me.” She looked down at her lap for a second and then looked up again. “I’ve been this for so long I wouldn’t even know how to go be someone else,” she said quietly.
Dylan was right: seeing her act so different—so real—was a little awkward. And with the camera, it made me feel like I was spying on her. But I couldn’t seem to put it down.
Then, as if a spell had been broken, she fluffed her hair and sat up straight. “Okay, enough of that. You want to come in and have an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special with me?”
“What’s that?”
“My dad and I came up with it. Basically you take everything that could be considered part of the dessert family and you mix it together. Ice cream, cookies, chocolate chips, strawberries, caramel sauce, Swiss Miss Diet Hot Cocoa—stuff like that.” She turned more to her left. “You’re getting my good side, right?” She was back to being the Dylan everyone loved-to-hate-hated-to-love.
I put the camera down. “Yeah. But my arm’s getting tired. I think I’ll stop for now.”
She took out her lip gloss and put some on. “So you want to come in?”
“I would, but I’m already pretty beat and I have to be at work at eleven tomorrow morning,” I replied.
“Oh. Okay.” She sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged, looking at the dark house as she sank back against the car seat. “It’s just that my dad’s been at Amber’s like every night this past week and being alone in there skeeves me out.” She turned to me. “I know it’s babyish, but I get freaked out being alone sometimes.”
It was almost easier when Dylan was just obnoxious 24/7. At l
east then I knew what to expect. But now, with all these news flashes that she could be just as uncomfortable as the rest of us mere mortals—that was throwing a real wrench in things. I sighed. “I guess I should at least taste an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special,” I replied. “So, you know, I can get to sleep. Otherwise I’ll be up all night wondering about it.”
She smiled. “Really?”
I smiled back and nodded.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, good!” As she reached for the door handle, she turned to me. “But I have to warn you—no one’s ever been able to have just a ‘taste.’”
Dylan was right—you can’t have just a taste of an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special. You have to scarf it down like you’ve been stranded on a desert island for three months, and not only is it the first thing other than berries and grass that you’ve eaten since then, but when it washes up on shore, it comes with a memo that says you’d better scrape up every bite because you won’t be getting anything else for another three months.
“Who knew that Magic Shell mixed so well with peanut butter?” I asked, sprawled out on one of the couches in her family room in a sugar coma while she took over the other one. “What time is it?”
She lifted her wrist up to her face as if it weighed three hundred pounds. “One o’clock. Do you have to call your mom again?”
“No—she’s probably sleeping by now. Plus, the idea of getting up to find my phone feels about as doable as running the L.A. Marathon,” I replied. “God, that was good.”
As Dylan sat up, a tiny burp came out of her mouth. “Omigod—excuse me. That was so gross.”
Ha. She should spend an afternoon with Steven if she wanted to see gross.
“I’m glad you liked it,” she said as she reached for a few stray M&M’s that had managed to escape her spoon and fallen onto the couch. “Asher thinks it’s disgusting.”
I heaved myself up and reached for the camera. “How come?” I asked, moving the lens from the empty ice-cream containers, candy bags, and hot fudge jar that were sitting on the coffee table to her face.
“He says it’ll make me fat.”
What a jerk. If he wasn’t five inches taller than me, I would’ve kicked his butt.
“I know that a lot of people gossip about the fact that he doesn’t treat me all that well,” she replied, trying to wipe the chocolate off her face but failing miserably, “but that’s just because they’re jealous. We’re totally fine.”
I nodded behind the camera.
“Really. We are,” she said defensively.
I wondered who she was trying to convince—me or herself.
“Anyway, your idea to put the caramel sauce on the dried cranberries? Totally brilliant,” she said. “We should write a cookbook or something.” Another burp escaped her. “Whoops. And then we’ll get a show on the Food Network and I’ll star in it and you’ll direct it.”
I put the camera down and pointed at the seventy-two-inch plasma flat-screen TV. “Speaking of networks, do you think I could turn that on for a sec just to see the picture quality?”
She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my dad.” She tossed me the remote. “Here.”
As I flipped the channels, I shuddered with excitement. The depth and sharpness of the picture, the vivid color—the minute I made my first chunk of money off one of my films I was buying one of these puppies.
And then—there it was.
I couldn’t believe it. There, in seventy-two inches of glorious color and surround sound, were Alvy and Annie meeting for the very first time after tennis.
“I can’t believe it,” I whispered.
“What? What? What is this? Who’s that weird-looking short guy? And why on earth is that woman wearing a man’s tie?” demanded Dylan.
It was like seeing it up on the Arclight screen, except I was on a comfy couch with my sneakers off. I was all for artistic integrity, but if I had to sell out to be able to afford a home-theater system like this, well, then, I would.
“Josh, what is this?”
“It’s Annie Hall,” I whispered, still dazed by its Technicolor beauty.
“That movie you were talking about earlier?”
I nodded. The reds were so red; the greens were so green; the sound was so clear. It was like an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special, but on the screen.
“Cool. Did it just start?”
I nodded again.
“Let’s watch it, then,” she said.
Which we did. Well, if you could call Dylan interrupting every two minutes with questions like “Do you think they knew they looked like fashion roadkill back then?” and “Are people really that neurotic, or is it just New Yorkers?” watching a movie. As the movie went on, she quieted down, and by the end, when Alvy and Annie ran into each other in front of the Beekman movie theater after they’d broken up, I could tell she had become a Church of Woody convert.
I heard a sniffle and looked over. “Are you crying?” I asked.
“No,” she said, trying to nonchalantly wipe away the tears I could see even though she turned her face to the side. She picked up the camera from the coffee table and hid behind it.
“It’s okay if you are,” I said to the camera. “It’s a very moving story.” Thinking back to the moment in the car earlier that evening, I thought it was only fair that I open up as well. “You know, I cried the first twenty times I saw it.” Wow. Admitting that out loud was hard enough, but when there was a camera in your face? Ouch.
“You did?” she said.
I nodded. “Now I guess I’m just used to it.”
She put the camera down. “But Annie was totally right to move to L.A. to be with a successful record producer like Paul Simon rather than a geek like Alvy who’s a neurotic hypochondriac.”
“Maybe he was born premature and his immune system wasn’t that strong,” I said defensively. “He never comes out and says that, but that’s the subtext I got, which would then explain his fear of getting sick.” I bet Amy Loubalu would have compassion for someone who had an underdeveloped immune system.
Dylan reached for the almost-empty caramel jar and scraped her finger along the inside. I couldn’t believe there was any room left in her tiny body for even a milligram more food. “Okay, when you use words like subtext and stuff like that? Way too film geek.”
“Maybe he wasn’t as successful as Paul Simon, but what about the fact that he was able to make her laugh?
That’s got to count for something, right?” It had to, or else I’d never get a date with Amy or anyone else. “Hey, did you know that the working title of Annie Hall was actually Anhedonia, which means ‘the inability to experience pleasure’?” I asked.
She gave me a weird look. “Why would you think I’d have any reason to know that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. In case you were in the bookstore and picked up the new biography of Woody that just came out that talks about that.”
“Yeah, well, moving on. Josh, I hate to tell you this, but while being able to make someone laugh is great, there are a lot more important things in a relationship.”
“Like what?” I asked. I could tell by the way she started shoveling popcorn in her mouth that I had hit a nerve.
“Lots of things,” she said, grabbing another handful. “Like . . . you know . . . chemistry. Like seeing the person and wanting to kiss them for hours until your lips fall off.”
“Okay, yes, I see your point, but what about when you’ve been together for a while and that part has passed? That’s what my mom says happened with my dad. Can’t you be attracted to someone because they’re smart and funny, too?”
She rolled her eyes. “God, you’re such a romantic.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s just so fairy tale-like. She stood up and stretched. “I can’t stand fairy tales. The princesses in them are so . . . princessy. Ick.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I stood up as well a
nd looked at the clock. It was nearly three. “I should go.”
“Wait—don’t you want a tour of the house or something? Please?” she asked, panicked. “You can film it—you know, give people an inside peek into my world.”
Sheesh—she really didn’t like to be alone. “Sure, I guess,” I replied.
The house was big even by Beverly Hills standards, so the tour killed another thirty minutes. Every room looked like it came directly out of a designer showroom—Mom would’ve had a heart attack from how everything matched so perfectly. While the house was beautiful, there was something off about it—it was like it didn’t seem lived in, but was more like a museum. I felt like I should have some sort of admission sticker on my shirt and not talk above a whisper.
“And this is my bedroom,” she said, leading me into a room that was bigger than my living room. I panned around with the camera.
“So this is where it all began,” I announced. “Where the acorn of popularity turned into a towering oak tree.”
She cringed and flopped down on the bed. “You said you’re just going to focus on directing and not writing in college, right?”
“Yeah,” I replied as I walked over to the closet.
“That’s probably a good idea,” she agreed.
I motioned to the closet door. “Can I?”
She shrugged.
I flung it open, surprised to find it filled with . . . clothes.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. I guess I just thought your room would be . . . I don’t know . . . different from normal people’s.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Because you’re so popular.”
She snorted. “Josh, I hate to tell you, but it’s not like there’s a book floating around with all this secret information about getting and staying popular.” She got off her bed and walked over to her bureau and opened a drawer. “Here, look—I even have a junk drawer, just like everyone else.”
“Huh,” I said, zooming in on the mess of rubber bands, pennies, old movie stubs. Exactly like the junk drawer in my room.
“Come on—let’s go downstairs,” she said.
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