American Beauty

by Zoey Dean

  “Burn victims?” Jack asked half-facetiously. He scratched his chin, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Hardly.” She made a gesture at her chin to indicate hanging jowls, then a similar motion at her breasts. “One day you wake up and your whole body is just falling to the floor. It’s terrifying,” She grabbed Jack’s arm. “I think we need to all be very, very upfront about our feelings, our lives, our essence, don’t you?”

  Fuck no. It’s no one’s damn business.

  “Like, take the word crazy,” Cici went on, not letting go of his arm. “What does it mean, really?”

  “It’s just a label,” Dee agreed. “A mean label.”

  “Wait until you hear Evolution.” Her mother beamed, her googly eyes bulging a little. “They’re so in tune with their essence. I named the band, you know. Evolution. As in, evolved to a higher plane.”

  “Gotta love it,” Jack commented. He now had a sneaking suspicion as to why Dee had gone off the deep end. It was genetic.

  The microwave beeped and Dee handed him the steaming bowl. As he speared a few SpaghettiOs, a short, red-faced white guy stepped into the kitchen. He had the build of a snowman; a small round head atop a larger round stomach, which led to two sticklike legs in baggy gangsta-style jeans. There was serious bling around his neck. This look would have been acceptable, even expected, in the music industry, had the man not been forty-five years old.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Dee called out.

  Graham Young was too livid to return her greeting. “Have you seen Armando?” He was carrying a glass bowl of creamy Alfredo sauce, which he flung into a garbage can. “What the fuck is that cook trying to do? He knows my lead guitar player is lactose intolerant!”

  “Honey,” Cici pointed out. “It’s tofu. Not to worry.”

  He ran and literally fished the bowl out of the trash. “Oh. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Okay, Jack decided. The whole family was insane. Suddenly, Graham Young noticed his daughter.

  “Babykins! Kitten!” He scooped Dee up in his arms, then stopped suddenly and turned to Jack. “So, you must be the guy I keep hearing about.”

  The guy he kept hearing about?

  Jack set his SpaghettiOs on a counter and offered him his hand. “Jack Walker. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Sir. He calls me sir!” Dee’s father chortled. “Funny guy. Cici, do you know where the new guitar strings are? Cody needs them.”

  “Beloved put them in his dressing room,” Cici explained, as her Sidekick began to sing inside her purple Balenciaga bag.

  “Dad, can you put me down now?”

  “Sure, sweetheart.”

  “Beloved’s of the Baha’i faith,” Dee went on. “Very spiritual. Her name used to be Ethel.”

  Jack nodded. “I can see why she changed it.”

  “Listen, it was great to meet you.” Graham nodded vigorously to Jack. “Now I gotta go.” He zoomed out of the kitchen.

  Cici smiled, as if her husband was the most normal person on earth. “So, kids. How about if we go hear the band?”

  Evolution was comprised of four American guys in their early twenties who had met at an English boarding school outside the town of York, where they’d practiced in front of the roaring fireplace in their dormitory’s common room. Even though they were privileged kids from rich families, Graham Young had retooled them into the Beatles circa Yellow Submarine. He’d even had the lead singer—formerly Sam Gebhardt—legally change his name to Darwin.

  The studio performance space was crowded—A and R reps from top record labels, music editors from Rolling Stone and L.A. Weekly, plus programming execs from MTV, VH1, and the other cable music channels all huddled around the good tables. The guys were all dressed in some variation on white T-shirts and jeans; the women seemed to have agreed that since it was a Sunday, sundresses were in order. Jack was glad that he fit in, with jeans and a navy blue New York Yankees T-shirt.

  Cici and Graham had redecorated the room for the showcase, opting for an Indian subcontinent motif; tapestry rugs from Bombay were layered artfully on the hardwood floor. On top of the rugs were twenty or so squashy velvet pillows edged in delicate fringe. Sweet-smelling incense burned slowly in various metal holders studded with golden stars and moons. Cici was busy adding to the olfactory assault, scurrying around the room and fanning a huge feather over a large abalone shell that spilled sage smoke into every nook and cranny.

  “My mom is spiritually cleansing the room,” Dee explained, as they stood in the back of the space, taking in the scene.

  “Good to know. Let’s sit down.”

  They found some unused pillows toward the back, since the industry guests were supposed to be closest to the band. Once everyone was settled, the Ravi Shankhar music that had been playing faded out, the lights dimmed, and Evolution took their place on the stage. Before they began, though, a shaman shuffled in, wearing a long red ceremonial gown of indiscriminate origin. He carried a long wooden branchlike item that tinkled with every step, and took a place behind the band.

  “It’s a rain stick,” Dee whispered excitedly.

  Jack had studied rain sticks in a Latin American lit course—they were hollowed, dried cactuses filled with pebbles. Both ends were capped and sealed, with the pebbles trapped inside. When the stick was moved, the pebbles ran over the interior thorns, making the sound of rain. They were traditionally used to serenade the gods in hopes of bringing moisture to the land.

  What this had to do with Evolution was lost on him.

  Then the shaman left the stage and the floppy-haired brunette lead singer mumbled into the microphone, “This first one is called ‘Monsoon.’” Then they started to play. To Jack’s surprise—no, shock—the band sounded pretty talented. He looked over at Dee, who was swaying happily to the melody.

  Then he felt her small hand journey northward from his knee to his thigh to—

  Damn. It was a good thing it was dark in there.

  “Cici?” He heard her lean over to her mother. “I’m going to show Jack where the bathroom is.”

  Dee led Jack out of the showcase room; they made a hard right down a narrow corridor, Dee trying door handles all the way. Finally, one opened: behind it was a tiny closet packed with brooms, an ancient vacuum cleaner, and a crusty mop.

  She pulled him inside and shut the door.

  Damn, this girl was smoking. Jack pressed her against the wall as darkness enveloped them. He moved his mouth to the spot where the top of her dress melded into her petal-soft skin. Her hands were totally tangled in his hair, and he couldn’t control how much he wanted her. …

  Neither of them knew how much time had passed when they realized that the music had ended.

  “Jack, what happened?” Dee whispered urgently.

  He stopped and listened—people were shuffling past them in their hallway, chattering excitedly about what they’d just heard.

  “I think it’s over.”

  “We have to get out—my dad will flip!”

  Fuck. She wasn’t really going to leave him like this, was she? How the hell was he supposed to go out there with a tent in his jeans?

  “Um, Dee, there’s a problem.” He touched her hand on the difficulty.

  “Just tell Captain Winky to come out and play later.”

  Before he could explain that Captain Winky was not under his conscious control, he saw her push the closet door open, her baby-blue eyes squinting with the sudden appearance of light.

  Then, out of nowhere, Graham wheeled around the corner and watched them slip out. But if he was unhappy at the sight of Jack, his daughter, and an open broom closet, his words belied it. “Dream Works wants to make a deal,” he reported efficiently. “What did you think?”

  “I think they’re great, Daddy,” Dee gushed. “Really. Jack did too.”

  Thanks, kids. I have to go kibbitz with the Columbia guy. Again, nice to have met you, Jack.”

  “You too, sir.”

  Graham fixed his gaze on
him, then on the closet door, and then on him again. “Excellent. I’m glad you were here. And Jack? One more thing. Hurt my little girl, I’ll eat you for lunch.”

  Crimson Crime

  If you wanted the perfect Los Angeles double hamburger, you went to In-N-Out Burger. If you needed a vintage terry-cloth jumpsuit, you haunted the thrift shops on Melrose. If you craved utter and total indulgence, you hauled your Dior-clad ass to Le Petite Retreat day spa.

  Le Petite Retreat was the spa of the moment. Its clientele included Heidi, Kate (after her latest rehab), Nicky (but definitely not Paris, who rendered everything she touched post-hip), and Gwyneth, when she was in town. Sam knew for a fact that there would be a five-page-with-glossy-photos spread on Le Petite in the next issue of Vogue. Hence, this Sunday afternoon outing with her friends would be their last and best chance to go before the tourists and wanna-bes swarmed the place.

  It was always so much work to find the spa of tomorrow.

  A-list models and movie stars, as opposed to A-list television stars, were the only ones who could get into Le Petite without a month’s advance notice. Sam Sharpe had A-list-movie-star clout because of “Action Jackson,” as he was called, which was why she was treating Anna, Cammie, and Dee to a Sunday afternoon at Le Petite as a graduation present. Of course, she was treating herself, too.

  Naturally, this spa afternoon was part of a still-forming larger plan—a strategic plan, in fact—to win Eduardo back. Every woman looked more beautiful after a spa day. It was absolutely crucial that Sam look her best to carry out her mission, no matter what shape it ultimately took, which was why it was absolutely crucial that she spend an afternoon at Le Petite. Eduardo was a wonderful guy who, through some magical alchemy of the stars, really loved her. She was not going to let one stupid night make the whole thing disappear.

  She’d decided to begin with the outside. Yes, she was ridiculously rich and semifamous, due to her very famous father and her own occasional mentions and photos in CosmoGirl! and Teen People. She had the best of everything and had taken advantage of every beautifying service known to womankind short of actually going under the knife. Yet she was still not really beautiful.

  Maybe if she’d lived in Duluth or Salt Lake City or one of those places where women thought wearing a size twelve was just fine, she could have dealt with her own physical shortcomings. But Beverly Hills? Sam’s deadly sin was worse than the seven she’d used as a theme for her pregraduation party on the boat: hers was lack of perfection.

  The great thing about Eduardo had been—and would be again, she vowed—that he really and truly loved her exactly as she was. They’d even made love with the lights on. That had been tough on her; she’d studied him like he was a canary in a coal mine for signs of disgust while viewing her dimpled thighs. But all she saw was lust. And love. On the worldwide guy scale of one to ten, Eduardo was an eleven. He had fallen really, deeply, and truly for Sam. Then she had gone and fucked it all up.

  Well, how the hell was she supposed to know he was going to surprise her and show up at the prom after-party? In real life, guys as fine as Eduardo didn’t do things like that for girls who looked like her. Talk about your suspension of disbelief. She’d tried to reconnect with him since then: phone calls, e-mails, all the usual ways. Nothing worked. It was time to get more creative. Whatever her plan would be, step one involved being buffed, scrubbed, rubbed, painted, and primped into a state of Le Petite polish. If, God forbid, her efforts bore no fruit, she’d at least look as good as she ever did.

  Roger, one of her father’s many drivers, dropped her at Le Petite, and she stepped through the glass door into the circular lobby. It was all white, with a soaring twenty-foot ceiling that featured a massive skylight. A waterfall trickled musically into an indoor koi pond—lights on the waterfall morphed through the spectrum of colors, all pulsing in time to the New Age music that emanated from inside the pebbled white walls. Large, slender aquamarine vases had been placed here and there on small black pedestals; each held a single purple orchid. The spa staff—invariably slender, mostly platinum blond—wafted through in white saris and loose-fitting pants, specially designed for the spa by Vera Wang. Each staff member had a “third eye” jewel glued to the middle of his or her forehead.

  Her friends were already there, on different white couches, as if they’d never met. Anna looked up from her New Yorker magazine; Cammie continued a cell phone conversation.

  “Hi, Sam.” Anna stood and kissed Sam on the cheek. “This place is beautiful. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “That was Dee,” Cammie reported, dropping her Razr cell phone into her mint-green-and-baby-pink Kate Spade hobo bag. “She can’t come—I didn’t catch exactly why—probably boning Jack. She said she tried to call but, Sam, your phone is off.”

  Sam pulled her Samsung out of her chocolate-brown fringed Kenneth Cole purse. Dee was right; the battery pack had come loose. Shit. What if Eduardo had tried to call, hit her voice mail, and decided not to leave a message? She couldn’t have it on during the spa session; cell phones in Le Petite were strictly forbidden. Even for her.

  “Ah, Miss Sharpe, welcome. I am Batsheva, at your service.” The girl greeting her had beautiful almond-shaped eyes and a lush raven braid down her back. She wore the regulation white outfit and had a ruby in the center of her forehead. She gestured toward Anna and Cammie with one graceful arm. “Please call me Sheva. And these are your guests?”

  “Yes; meet Anna and Cammie.”

  Sheva nodded. “I will be your personal valet for the afternoon. If you need anything at all, I am but a chime away.” She handed Sam a small white disc on a wristband. “You press the disc like so—” Sheva pressed the disc; an identical bracelet on her own wrist chimed loudly. “When you chime, I chime, you see, and then I will come see to your every need. I hope that is satisfactory.”

  “Sure,” Sam agreed, donning her bracelet. “Thanks.”

  Sheva gave a small bow. “Most excellent. Now if all three of you would be so good as to follow me?”

  She led the way through a pristine hallway, then down some steps and into the ladies’ changing room. There was a row of doors with brass handles. Each girl’s name had been precalligraphied on a faux-brass name-plate. Nice touch.

  Sam entered the SAM door to get undressed. Her cubicle—at least as large as her oversized bathroom and dressing area at her dad’s estate—contained a graceful white velvet divan, a private sunken whirlpool, and a white leather massage table. Hanging on the back of the door she found an Italian Frette spa robe monogrammed with the Le Petite logo and silk thong slippers. There was even a white velvet head wrap to protect her hair during her facial.

  The treatments had all been prearranged. They’d each begin with an aquasonic lymphatic microdermabrasion facial on the massage tables in their chambers to firm, oxygenate, and rejuvenate the skin by detoxing the lymph system.

  A moment later, Sheva knocked discreetly and asked if she might come in. She handed Sam a bone china cup of herbal tea, and then asked if Sam would prefer jasmine, eucalyptus, or primrose scent in her room. Sam picked jasmine. Sheva pressed a button on a panel. Moments later the aroma of fresh flowers subtly filled the air.

  Then another female entered and Sheva departed. This young woman, who called herself Natasha, wore the same outfit as Sheva, save for the third eye glued to her forehead. Hers was a blue sapphire. She had a blond crew cut and the perfectly chiseled bone structure to pull it off. “Lie back and clear your mind,” Natasha instructed, in a voice that had the faintest of Russian accents. “Enjoy your facial.”

  Sam closed her eyes, and as Natasha’s hands pressed firmly on the lymph nodes around her eyes, over and over, she drifted away on a magic carpet of bliss. If she were a guy, she could imagine marrying Natasha for her hands alone. In fact, Sam didn’t realize that Natasha had finished and exited until she heard the chime go off on her wrist.

  A moment later, Sheva reentered her chamber. “So, you are ready to meet Cam
mie and Anna at the copper tubs?”

  The attendant led Sam out of her chamber and down an entirely different white hallway that finally opened into a large bath area with a dozen massive copper tubs. Given the choice of hydrotherapy bath options, Sam had opted for the Peppermint Ginger Plunge, wherein she would soak in aromatherapy oils of eucalyptus, ginger, and peppermint that were said to energize and invigorate the body and the spirit. For Anna, she’d selected the Aqua Latte & Floral Medley—essential oils of lavender, rose, and sage. Finally, Cammie would experience the Green Tea Escape, soaking in rose petal oil and essence of green tea.

  “How’s life?” Sam giggled to her friends, who were already in their respective baths.

  “Amazing,” Anna rhapsodized as she lowered herself deeper into the scented water. “It put me to sleep.”

  “Me too, and that never happens.” Sam noticed less of an edge than usual to Cammie’s voice, as Sheva helped her into her steaming copper tub, bowed, and exited.

  She sank into the bubbling water, her eyes closing of their own volition. “Oh my God. This might be the best thing I ever felt in my life.”

  “In that case, you better tell Eduardo to step up his game,” Cammie commented, from Sam’s other side. “That is, if he ever speaks to you again.”

  Sam reopened her eyes. Trust Cammie to say just the thing guaranteed to bring the tension roaring back. “That was bitchy.”

  “You’re right.” Cammie nodded quickly. “Sorry. I’m dealing with all this shit about my father.”

  Had Cammie Sheppard apologized? Cammie never apologized. Sam knew Cammie was referring to what had happened on that yacht. She turned her head and dropped her voice so Anna wouldn’t overhear.

  “So how’s that going?”

  “It isn’t. My father keeps ducking me. I am going to confront him tonight. If I have to have him kidnapped and tied to his Eames management chair, I will.”

  “I know you will.”

  Forty-five minutes later, when all three girls were bubbled into pink submission, their attendants came back to wrap them in fluffy white seven-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton towels. Then they were given aromatherapy pulse-point massages by various attendants while three other minions tended to their manis and pedis. Sam opted for the spa’s Crimson Crime polish, mixed with flecks of real twenty-four-karat gold.