by Melody Mayer
Kiley's face burned. But what burned her even more was the fact that she was letting these two mean little bitches get to her.
“I was in Wisconsin last summer,” Staci added. “My dad runs Uprising Studios. I was a production assistant on Julia Roberts's last movie—we shot in Green Bay. Frankly, I think she's toast since she became a mother.”
“Totally,” Zona agreed. “Zero sex appeal.” She cut her eyes at Kiley. “Kind of like you, Cheesehead.”
“I don't think you want to go around dissing my friend,” Lydia said, her tone sweet and conversational. “Because that would make me mad. And trust me, you don't want to make me mad.”
Kiley's face burned. “I can stick up for myself.”
“We were only joking,” Staci insisted. She stood. “We just wanted to say you kicked ass with Coach Bucky. You're going to fit in really well.”
Zona stood, too. “Tell her about the football game.”
Staci glared at her friend. “I was just about to do that. Lydia, there's a home game on Friday night. Our team is playing Echo Park—total lowlife greaseball gangbangers. I know it's before school actually starts, but they get going early. A lot of us go to the games and then go party. You should come and hang out with us and our friends.”
Football games. Kiley never would have expected them to be social events here in California. Back in Wisconsin, Friday night football was huge. Huh. At least one thing was the same. Of course, at home she went to football games with her friends. She could not imagine becoming friends with these two toxic twits.
“That sounds like fun, y'all,” Lydia replied. “Kiley and I would love to come. And our friend Esme, too. Wouldn't we, Kiley?” Lydia batted her lashes.
“Not really,” Kiley replied honestly. She knew the batting-the-eyelashes thing had been added as a joke, to josh Kiley into saying yes.
“Oh, you'll change your mind,” Lydia insisted.
“Lucky us,” Staci mumbled. She tossed her hair, then spoke to Lydia again. “Remember, we're going out afterward, so dress to impress.” The toxic twits started down the bleachers.
“My first high school football game!” Lydia exclaimed. “How fun is that gonna be?”
“I would rather gnaw off my arm than go with those two,” Kiley said, cocking her chin in the direction of the departing girls.
“Oh sure, they're snobs and all,” Lydia agreed easily. “But not to worry. A clique is just a tribal thing. They don't want to admit new girls into their tribe. Dissing you is a rite-of-passage kind of thing. At least you don't have to drink sheep piss.” She stood and yanked Kiley to her feet. “Come on. Let's tell Esme about the game.”
Lydia started down the bleachers, but Kiley hung back. She'd just realized something. Hadn't Staci just said that Bel Air High was playing Echo Park? Echo Park was Esme's old school.
Esme had never been so thankful to see the gate to the Goldhagens' Bel Air estate come into view. She punched in the security code, watched as the wrought-iron doors groaned open, and engaged all eight cylinders of the Goldhagens' Jaguar for the seemingly endless climb up the driveway—more like a private road, really—to the ginormous mansion.
After the field-day tryouts at school, her legs felt like Jell-O, each pulse of the crankshaft reminding her of the wind sprints she'd suffered, and the sit-ups she could barely do. She was hardly a wimp. In fact, she felt certain she could—and would, if the occasion called for it—kick the ass of any of those overprivileged brats she'd met on the field today. But sports were not her thing.
She pulled up in front of the garage, between Diane's new Mercedes and the red Jensen Interceptor that Steven had been driving lately. There were a half dozen more spotless, shiny vehicles in the garage, she knew. By the time she got out, Easton and Weston were trotting up to her. They each wore shorts and tennis shirts—Easton's outfit was pink, Weston's was yellow— and their grins were covered with barbecue sauce, like two stubby clowns who had run out of makeup.
“Esme! Esme! Come to eat chicken!” Weston implored, taking hold of one of Esme's hands with hers, which, Esme saw, were also covered in barbecue sauce, meaning that now so was she.
“Tarshea makes jerk!” Easton was practically jumping up and down with joy and excitement. She took Esme's other hand. “Come on.”
Esme could certainly smell the cooking. But Tarshea makes jerk? Well, Esme was rapidly deciding that perhaps Tarshea was a jerk. Maybe the twins had come around to realizing it.
“Okay,” Esme told them. “Let's go check out the jerk.”
With the twins still holding her hands in their own sticky, barbecue-sauced fingers, Esme made her way down the path toward the tennis court. It was only a hundred feet from her guesthouse. Mental correction: the guesthouse she now shared with a most unwelcome guest named Tarshea.
Esme thought she'd take home-field advantage and speak a little Spanish with the girls. She asked them, in Spanish, if they missed her when she was away for the morning.
“Tarshea say we speak English. No Spanish.” Easton was adamant.
Weston nodded. “English. Mom say do what Tarshea say.”
“Tarshea is my teacher,” Easton intoned. “Tarshea is a good teacher.”
“We learn to say this,” Weston explained. “We say good?”
“Very good!” Esme assured them, though inwardly she was more than irritated. She'd been working on the kids' English for weeks, and now Diane was giving all the credit to the new girl? Aargh. It was just so annoying. Well, Diane and Steven would see her with the twins now, and maybe that would remind Diane that—
Esme stopped suddenly, even as the twins jerked her forward. There had been some construction done that morning. Next to the tennis court, as if it had been there for months, stood a twenty-foot-tall mahogany outdoor pavilion, complete with shingled roof, bench seating for twelve, and an accompanying Jamaican-style open fire pit. Sitting in the pavilion were Diane and Steven. Each of them was holding a Red Stripe beer, casually chatting with their guests. With them was Hilary Swank—Esme recognized her, but not her date—and a half dozen other guests. She squinted. Was that Carlos Santana? Esme was pretty sure it was. Her heart flip-flopped. Santana was her parents' favorite musician. Did her parents know? Had they met him?
She didn't see Jonathan, but over by the jerk barbecue pit, beaming beneath a chef's hat and apron and hailing Esme with a pair of tongs, was Tarshea. She wore khaki shorts and a simple white T-shirt, and she looked gorgeous.
“Come turn the jerk, children!” Tarshea beckoned to the twins, who wriggled from Esme's hands and sprinted toward the pavilion. As they did, Diane gave Esme a little wave.
“Esme! Good to see you. I'm sure the day at your high school was a nice break,” Diane cooed.
Hardly. Esme just clenched a grin in response as Diane introduced her friends. “And this is one of our wonder nannies, Esme.”
“Nice to meet you, Esme,” Carlos said, offering her a handshake.
Diane laughed. “Our children are a handful. But between Esme and Tarshea, we've got the girls covered.”
“Hold it, hold it. You're the Esme Castaneda?” the guy with Hilary—Buzz something or other—asked. “The tattoo artist?” He was medium height with an inky black Mohawk.
Esme shot a quick look at Diane to see how her employer was reacting. “Oh, it's just something I do in my spare time,” she said, hoping Diane would be reassured that the tattoo thing was not interfering with the nanny thing.
“You're too modest,” Buzz insisted. “I'm a huge fan of your work. I can't believe you're Diane and Steven's nanny. I never made the connection. If you have any appointments, Hil and I would love to get a session.”
“Leave me your number and I'll call you,” Esme said quickly. She really did not like the look on Diane's face.
“I didn't realize you were taking tattoo clients,” Diane said. Her tone was conversational, but Esme could feel the frost beneath the goodwill.
“Just a few friends, really,”
Esme lied.
“Well,” Diane said. “It's nice that you find the time.” She cleared her throat. “I'm sure you want to go shower after your workout at school. Tarshea can watch the girls.”
“Of course,” Tarshea agreed pleasantly from the barbecue pit. “It's my favorite thing to do.”
Great. Swell. Esme couldn't very well say no to a shower.
At least she had the guesthouse to herself for once. She walked in and slipped off her shoes. The cool tile felt good on her aching feet. After she'd stripped down to her bra and panties, Esme sat on her bed and opened a wooden jewelry box she'd filled with things she'd brought from the barrio: a toy horse her father had carved for her, some recipes of her grand-mother's, and some photographs. She uncovered a snapshot of herself as a grinning little girl missing her two front teeth, her father helping steady her on her first bike. They had found the bike at the Salvation Army, a broken-down thing for five dollars, and her father had managed to make it rideable. She might have been living in a better place now, but on days like these, when very little felt familiar, Esme missed the cracked slate of the Echo.
“¿Sensación nostálgica, hija mía?”
Esme looked up. There, in the doorway to the guesthouse, stood her mother, who had just asked if she was feeling homesick.
Esmeralda Castaneda wore the crisp black uniform with white apron that Diane provided for her. Her swollen feet were encased in cheap black orthopedic shoes cracking on the sides, her hair up in a bun. She might be the Goldhagens' maid, but to Esme, her tired mother in a uniform and ugly shoes looked infinitely more beautiful than Diane in her designer everything.
“Sometimes,” Esme confessed. She put the picture back in the box. “It's funny. You and Dad work here, but I hardly ever see you. And even if I did, seeing you here …” She let the rest of her sentence trail off. They would all be employees, not a family, was what she meant.
Her mother nodded, filling in the blanks. She sat beside Esme. “For you to be here and not in the Echo”—she patted the bed—“this is much better for you, ¿sí?”
Esme knew her mom wasn't just referring to the bed itself, but to her whole life outside Echo Park, away from the addicts, sirens, cholos, and gangs.
“Right,” she agreed, albeit grudgingly, and pointed through the open door at the Jamaican flag now pinned to Tarshea's door. “But I feel like I'm getting pushed out by my new roommate. I come home and she's done my job already. The niñas prefer her. And she spends more time with the Goldhagens and the girls than I do. Even when I went to Jonathan's party, there she was.”
Mrs. Castaneda gave Esme a look that Esme thought of as her evil eye. “You and that boy still?”
“I know you don't want me to see him—”
“I want you to use the brains the good Lord gave you, Esme! How many times have your father and I told you to keep clear of him?”
Esme sighed. “I know.”
“Keep your place, Esme,” her mother chided. “You should only hope that girl Tarshea steals him away.”
Esme bristled. “My place?”
“I'm sorry, mi princesita, but you know how I feel.” Her mother placed a weathered hand on Esme's knee. “And another thing. If you think it is hard to live here when you come from Echo Park, think of how hard it would be coming from another country. Without your mother or father? Without any friends? I have seen Tarshea with the kids. All she wants to do is help you, and you push her away.”
Esme couldn't stand it—her mother was taking Tarshea's side, too! “You don't really know her,” she insisted.
“I know why I get on my hands and knees every day to scrub the floor of the Goldhagens' bathrooms,” she replied. “So that you will—”
“Have a better life,” Esme filled in. Because she knew it was true. Because she'd heard it a million times.
“You waste your time worrying about the wrong things, hija mía,” her mother gently chided. “Forget Jonathan. Forget Tarshea. Concentrate on school so you can become somebody.”
Esme gritted her teeth. “I am somebody.”
“Sueños sin mucho trabajo significan nada,” her mother said.
Dreams without hard work mean nothing, her mother had just said. Which meant: Keep your eye on the ball. Not on a guy. And not on the comp.
“I'll try,” she promised, then stood. “I'd better go take a shower.”
Her mother stood too. “Before I go, I want to ask about your tattoo business. Are you still making money?”
Great. Why not two lectures for the price of one?
“Lots,” Esme said simply.
“Your school is about to start. I don't want you too busy with other work. You got enough to do here. More than enough, hija mía.”
Esme thought about the oh-so-charming girls she'd already met at Bel Air High, how out of place she felt there, as if she was outlined in garish, flashing neon that said POOR BROWN GIRL FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF TOWN. “It's not really my school, Mama. It's all rich white kids and no Latinos, at least none like me.”
“Nobody is like you. You have to be strong, use it to your advantage. It may be a change from what you're used to, but this high school is your best opportunity. It's not a time for self-pity, or for tattoos. Think of your future, mi preciosa.”
After releasing her hands, her mother hugged Esme tightly and left.
Esme took a long, steamy shower, letting the advice sink in. She'd heard it before, but Esme realized what her mother had said in a new way. She was completely correct. Nobody was like her. That meant nobody knew what was best for her. Nobody could tell her what to do. This conversation had been a case in point: she'd talked to the one person she could talk to, only to hear she was doing everything wrong.
Great. What a joy to think your mother believed you were totally blowing it.
She put on some black shorts with rolled-up bottoms and a simple white T-shirt and went outside again, only to find the jerk pit had been abandoned. But there was a china plate of fragrant jerk chicken and other goodies wrapped in aluminum foil with her name written in marker.
Tarshea had to have done that. It was so hard to hate someone when they were nice to you.
Where had everyone gone? After she ate half the plate of food, Esme circled around the property and discovered they'd moved to the heated pool for a rowdy game of water volleyball. The teams were evenly three on three. On one side, Easton and Weston perched themselves on the shoulders of the Hollywood couple while Steven played backcourt. On the other side, Diane took the net, with Tarshea in the back. There was one other player, too. Jonathan had arrived.
He greeted her warmly; she waved back. Esme didn't jump into the water because she didn't have her suit, and it would have made the teams uneven. Nor did anyone suggest she go put on a suit and join them. So she just stood and watched, her eyes moving to Tarshea. Perfectly toned caramel legs, displayed below the bottom of a green-and-white-polka-dotted Dolce & Gabbana bikini.
Esme's bikini.
No. She would not get angry. Instead, she dragged a patio seat to the net, and quietly suffered their exhibitions of fun and hilarity. Her gaze floated over the pool and up into the hills of Bel Air. The sky was blue and the clouds looked as though they had been painted on. The sun glinted off the sparkling blue of the pool water. While the game went on, Esme set her jaw, cupped her knees, and thought of her tattoo business. One potential design followed another, and another. Two-headed demons, symbols, and animals of every kind. On the face of every one was Jonathan and Tarshea.
Thursday morning at nine sharp, Kiley slipped past the assembled gaggle of pushy reporters and did her best attempt at a confident stride through the heavy wooden doors of the courthouse. She had dressed in what she thought of as “court clothes,” slim black pants and ballet flats, and a robin's-egg blue button-down blouse that Lydia had found for her on sale at Nordstrom. She had taken an extra minute that morning to smooth her hair into a tidy ponytail, tucking back loose strands, knowing that people mig
ht be watching her reactions or that one of the court's sketch artists might even draw her. She made her way through security, then forced out a small smile as she walked into the courtroom, her eyes scanning the crowd for her former boss's trademark white-blond hair.
There she was, alone at the defense table.
“Kiley!” Platinum hissed and motioned to her.
Kiley weaved through a row of spectator seats and approached the singer, understated perfection in a white Chanel suit and diamond stud earrings. They stood together at the low wooden barrier between the spectators and the front of the courtroom, where the action took place.
“I am so sick of this media bullshit,” Platinum groused.
This struck Kiley as ironic. The only reason she'd met Platinum in the first place was because she'd tried to do a reality show to get as much media attention as possible in an attempt to get her career off life support. It turned out that getting arrested had the same effect. Ever since Platinum's sensational bust, sales of her CDs had tripled.
Platinum turned around and flashed the reporters who were gathered in the back of the courtroom a scintillating smile. No cameras were allowed in the room, but that hadn't stopped every two-bit reporter from getting press credentials. Everyone from the New York Times to Us was there. Kiley felt that they had to have more important stories to cover, but evidently they didn't agree.
“How are the kids?” Platinum asked Kiley, rapidly tapping her French-manicured fingertips against the wooden desk. “I can't believe they're putting my children on the stand. Fucking vultures.”
“The kids are ready to go,” Kiley assured her.
That is, she mentally amended, if having Serenity sneak lip gloss and mascara past the colonel to apply in the courthouse's ladies' room so that she'll look good for the cameras means “ready.” All three kids were in a waiting area with a social worker who had been assigned to them.
“I talked to my lawyer about finding some other way to make my case, but he told me there's no way around putting them on the stand,” Platinum said. Anxiety clouded her eyes. “Thank God you're with them, Kiley. I really mean that.”