American Beauty

by Zoey Dean

  The former Mrs. Sharpe had thick, lustrous dark hair streaked with gray, cut into a simple bob. She had a pleasant face with a nose kind of like Bridget Fonda’s if Bridget were a lot older. Her lips were narrow, her face round. She wore a simple blue blazer over a white T-shirt, and the kind of jeans that probably had elastic at the waist. As for makeup, all Sam noticed was some coral lipstick that had already crept into the corners of her mouth. A quick flick of the eyes took her to her mother’s lower body. Yep. That was exactly where Sam had gotten her fucking fat ankles. The woman had left behind nothing but her bad gene pool.

  “You grew up,” her mother observed. Her eyes held Sam’s—Sam had the uncanny sensation of looking into her own.

  There was a carafe of coffee and three cups on the table, plus a sad-looking basket of defrosted-looking sweet rolls and croissants. Sam’s mother poured coffee for Sam and Cammie, then gently pushed the cups in their direction.

  “I guess that’s what happens when you don’t see your daughter for nine years,” Sam offered awkwardly but firmly. She stirred a packet of Splenda into her beverage. “I’m going to call you Dina. I’m not comfortable with ‘Mom.’ Okay?”

  Her mother nodded and turned to Cammie. “Camilla. It’s been a long time.”

  Cammie crossed her legs and let one shocking pink platform shoe dangle from her toes. “It has. I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. So tell me, Dina. Were you fucking my father?”

  Dina raised her eyebrows. “You’re direct and to the point, I’ll give you that.”

  “Oh, so sorry. Would you prefer polite and meaningless chitchat?”

  Sam would have laughed if she weren’t too busy trying not to cry. Cammie was not taking her own advice. “Let’s start with this, Dina,” Sam said to her mother, deciding that the only way to remain tear-free was to take control. “Why’d you decide to come? Why are you here?”

  Her mother put her hands in her lap. “I shouldn’t be surprised at your hostility, I suppose. I’m here because you wanted to see me, correct?”

  “I wanted to talk to you, yes. I didn’t expect a maternal visit as a graduation present.”

  “Sam. There’s so much you don’t know.” Dina sighed, tapped a red-painted fingernail on the tabletop, and then laid her hand flat as if to stop herself. Her eyes were welling up with tears. “Let me tell you about myself. Would that be okay?”

  Sam raised her palms as if to say, I won’t stop you.

  “I live in a small town, about a half hour from Asheville, North Carolina,” she began tentatively. “It’s called East Flat Rock. I run the Living section at our local newspaper.”

  Sam nodded. “And?”

  “My husband’s name is Victor Weller. He sells life insurance.”

  Sam hardened and glanced at the simple gold band on her mother’s ring finger. “How many stepbrothers and sisters do I have?”

  “None.”

  “You might take Ruby Hummingbird, then,” Cammie offered, readjusting her legs. “Jackson and Poppy’s new spawn. Sam’s house would be much more pleasant without her.”

  “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” Dina shook her head. “Different people are good and bad at different things. I think I’m a very good wife, and I’m a very good editor. I tutor immigrants from Mexico in English, and volunteer at the hospice in Hendersonville. But the truth is, I was a terrible mother.”

  Sam was shocked by the blunt honesty of her mother’s remark. “Good to know we agree about something.”

  “Sam.” Her mother laced her fingers. “I came to Hollywood right out of Penn State. I got hired at the Times, but I wanted to be a screenwriter. Instead of finding a career I loved, I found your father.”

  Sam eyed Cammie. “Should we set this sob story to music, Cammie?”

  “I haven’t seen you in nine years; I’m only trying to explain.” Dina pressed on. “I got caught up in the glitz and the glamor. It’s so seductive. Some people can handle it; thrive on it, I suppose. I’m not one of them. Drugs and booze and sex … I thought it was what everyone did. It nearly killed me.”

  “You want me to feel sorry for you?” Sam’s voice was small. “I didn’t ask to be born.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Dina agreed. “You deserve better.”

  The table was silent.

  “That’s it?” Sam queried. “That’s all you have to say? What about Cammie’s—”

  “I’ve got it, Sam,” Cammie interrupted. “The night my mother drowned on the Strikers’ yacht. You were there. We know that.”

  Dina nodded.

  “You were screwing my father,” Cammie said, her tone as pleasant as if she was discussing what to order for lunch.

  Dina hesitated, then slowly nodded again.

  “Here’s my question, Dina.” Cammie leaned forward. “Who killed my mother? You, Clark, or both of you?”

  Dina recoiled. “My God, is that what you think? We had nothing to do with it! We were young and stupid and shallow. I don’t have any excuses. Sleeping with Clark was an idiotic thing to do.” She turned to Cammie. “But you must know that had nothing to do with why your mother died. She never even knew about it. Your mother was clinically depressed. Surely your father told you that.”

  Clinically depressed? What was Dina talking about? Sam snuck a glance at Cammie—her friend’s eyes were open wide and she looked horrified. Sam had never seen her make quite that expression before.

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Cammie, you only knew your mother as a little girl. Which means that you only saw one side of her, the side that a child sees. I met your mother soon after Jackson and I were married. Before she had you and I had Sam, we did everything together. Skied at Lake Tahoe, hiked in the Alps. I loved her. I adored her.”

  Sam found herself leaning forward—it was as if her mother was giving her a window into another world.

  “She loved you, Cammie. She used to carry you everywhere. I used to be riveted just watching her with you, especially considering my own … shortcomings … as a mother. It was amazing.”

  “She doesn’t sound clinically depressed,” Cammie pointed out her voice tight.

  “Things changed,” Dina went on slowly. “When you were in second grade, about.”

  “What changed?”

  “Your mom. There were days at a time when she wouldn’t go out of the house. Weeks, even.”

  Sam had known Jeanne Sheppard. She wracked her memory for any sign that her mother was telling the truth. Nothing.

  “No.” Cammie was adamant. “Mom was not like that. She was a schoolteacher. She had to go to school. She couldn’t just stay at home.”

  “It wasn’t that she couldn’t leave home. It was that she was clinically depressed. She saw many therapists. Ask your father, Cammie. He’ll tell you.”

  “He told me something else.”

  “To protect you.” Dina’s voice was gentle. “I’m sure he did it to protect you. If I’d thought you didn’t know, I might have lied, too.”

  Cammie shook her head. “No. I would remember something. …”

  “She got worse and worse. By the time you were starting third grade—that was the year of the accident, I think—she was in bad, bad shape.”

  Was she lying? Sam honestly didn’t know. Cammie had said something to her about her father and mother having had a terrible argument that night—how Clark had been the instigator. Had Clark concocted that story to protect Cammie from the truth? Clark Sheppard had never fallen on his sword before, but there always was a first time.

  “I know this has to be a little hard to take, Cammie.” Her mother’s voice was soothing. “Disappointing and disillusioning, maybe, all at the same time. Don’t take my word for it. Talk to your father again. Tell him you talked to me. I think he’ll tell you the truth.”

  Cammie raised her eyebrows. “And I should believe you because … ?”

  “I’m telling the truth, Cammie. Your mother was a wonderful woman—” />
  “Then why were you doing her husband?” Sam couldn’t stop herself.

  “Everyone at that time was doing inappropriate things that they should have thought long and hard about before getting into. I’m not proud of it, but … there it is. Your mother loved you so much, Cammie. She was as good a mother as I was bad. Some people don’t deserve to take credit for how wonderful their children turn out to be.”

  Dina shifted her gaze to Sam. “Unfortunately, one of them gave birth to you. I came to see you because I hoped—now that you’re about to graduate from high school—that we might get to know each other as adults. I hoped that was why you wanted me to be here now. I was a weak mother; it’s why my husband and I never had children. But I can be a really good friend.”

  Sam leaned over the table toward her. “I’m very glad you came here. I really am. But I can’t forget that the only reason you’re here is because I had to hire a detective to track you down. I have friends.” She looked pointedly at Cammie. “Good friends. Friends I’d do anything for. What I don’t have is a mother. I know you said you’re a terrible mom. Well, little kids have moms. Grown-up women have mothers. When you’re ready to be my mother, I’d love to talk to you some more.”

  She stood up and looked at Cammie. Shit. Her friend was finally reacting—her face that of someone who’d just been handed a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, or something else life-altering. Shocked and stunned.

  “Come on, my friend,” Sam said to her softly. “I think we should go.”

  Two Surgically Enhanced Basketball Breasts

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Principal Kwan’s voice boomed out over the Broadway-level sound system in Beverly Hills High School’s two-thousand-seat Streisand theater. “It is an honor to present to you the fiftieth-anniversary graduating class of Beverly Hills High School!”

  With that announcement, every student—they were assembled on high-rise Plexiglas bleachers on the stage in black graduation caps and gowns designed for the occasion by Osuro Miko, an up-and-coming designer who had previously been with Gucci before branching out on her own with her Santa Monica boutique—rose in their seats as thunderous applause rocked the auditorium.

  Anna peered out into the darkness of the theater, trying to find her family. Impossible. It was a sea of darkness, made more difficult to penetrate by a series of spotlights that played over the graduates as though they were at the opening of a studio blockbuster.

  “I’d like to thank all the little people who made this possible,” Sam whispered to Anna, as Kwan asked the graduates to take their seats once again.

  Anna smiled. The best thing about this graduation was that the students didn’t have to enter or sit in alphabetical order. It meant she could sit on one side of Sam, with Cammie and Adam on the other side. As for Dee, she wasn’t officially graduating because of her hospitalization—she’d have to take summer school classes. Anna felt a little bad that she couldn’t participate.

  “You haven’t won the Oscar yet, Sam,” Anna finally whispered back.

  “Is Ben out there?”

  Anna shook her head, though the whistling and applauding continued.

  “Do you know that bitch Stefanie Weinstock set him up?” Sam continued.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She made sure Blythe was at the party just to fuck with you.”

  Oh my God. Was that true? How did Stefanie even know about them? How did she even know Blythe? What if she lost Ben over this, because she couldn’t accept his explanation of what had happened with Blythe. Was she being too hard on Ben?

  “Yo, Anna,” Sam called, waving a hand in front of Anna’s eyes. “Enough with the angst. Obsess later. Be here now, ’kay?”

  Sam was right. Be here now.

  “Okay.”

  The Streisand Theater, named for one of its largest benefactors, was certainly the most lavish inside any high school in the country. With both a main floor and a mezzanine, it featured rich, floor-to-ceiling wood paneling with acoustic reflective boxed insets, real gold paint trim, a beveled acoustic ceiling, and a raked stage. There was fly space above the stage for scenery changes, rehearsal rooms large enough for a small army, a full scenic shop, and an orchestra pit that could hold an eighty-five piece ensemble. Small wonder that the school was regularly contacted by impresarios wanting to rent it.

  “Can you believe they brought Kwan back for this?” Sam quipped. “I just hope she doesn’t spend her entire speech obsessively clearing her throat the way she always did when she was principal.”

  Anna giggled; it was still nice that they’d brought back Kwan, who had been tabbed by the governor as the latest state commissioner of education. The alternative would have been the new principal, a woman whose name Anna could never remember, known best for her two surgically enhanced basketball breasts.

  As the applause and cheering finally died out, Kwan announced that it was time to bestow the diplomas. Could the audience hold its applause until the end, and could each graduate please step forward?

  “Ashley Elizabeth Abbey. Armondo Giancarlo Abbruzzi. Ntozange Sayrah Adams.” The president of the Board of Education—a tall, striking woman with a booming voice—announced each graduate in turn.

  “Get her name,” Sam whispered to Anna. “I want to cast her in something.”

  Though Anna had never attended a high school graduation before, she was sure that this one set the standard. Not that she should have expected anything less, considering the showbiz connections of the student body and the glamorous alumni pool of the last fifty years.

  The graduation speaker had been a representative from the office of the Dalai Lama—the famous Tibetan spiritual leader had been scheduled to give the address, but had to jet off to New York City at the last minute for a meeting of the United Nations Security Council. His young replacement—spellbinding in orange monk’s robes, and with a command of the English language worthy of a literature professor—had given a brilliant address about consumerism and the responsibility of America’s youth to stem the tide of conspicuous consumption.

  If anyone present appreciated the irony of this topic for this audience, it wasn’t apparent from the reaction: he finished to a standing ovation. Following the speaker was a video featuring greetings from many of the school’s most famous former attendees and graduates.

  After the video came the musical performances. Best received was Lenny Kravitz, who happily announced that he was a BHHS alumnus, then launched into his hit “Heaven Help.” Contrary to the rumor that swept through the bleachers, Monica Lewinsky—who’d also attended the school—didn’t come out to sing backup.

  “Charles David Dimmerman. Beijing Lynne Dinnerstein.” The litany continued.

  Anna saw Cammie look at her watch and peer into the wings of the theater. “Ah, there she is.”

  “Who?” Sam asked.

  Cammie grinned and motioned to the wings. Peeking out from behind one of the black side curtains was Dee, in a tiny little cap and gown. Anna smiled. She’d really come to like Dee. There was justice in Dee’s sitting with her friends for the ceremony, even if she wouldn’t be getting an official diploma.

  “Who arranged that?” Anna asked Sam.

  “Cammie.”

  “Nice.”

  “You know that thing about blood being thicker than water?” Sam asked. “Total bullshit. Family is who you choose.”

  Anna knew exactly what Sam was talking about, since Sam had told her all about her strange encounter with her mother. It made Anna think of her own family, out there somewhere in the darkness. She didn’t understand her sister and felt as if she was a constant disappointment to her mother. Her father … well, she’d hoped to get to know him better by moving out here, but he was still pretty much a mystery, too.

  “Anna Percy.”

  Sam nudged her. “Get your ass up there!”

  It was the strangest thing; Anna felt like she was watching herself as she edged her way across the floor-boards of the st
age toward the podium, where Kwan was standing with the Board of Ed president, handing parchment diplomas to the graduates as they filed by.

  Life is a series of passages. And now I am on to the next.

  Was it worth it? To leave her New York friends and life behind? So much had changed. There’d been a boy in Manhattan she’d had a terrible crush on. She’d thought about this guy all the time, once upon a time. She realized now it had been weeks—months!—since he’d crossed her mind at all.

  There was Ben. She thought—hoped—that they weren’t over. Shouldn’t real love—the right love—be easy? It was never easy between her and Ben. They’d be sailing along just fine and then … wham! They’d be hit by some rogue wave out of the past. Well, she’d wanted to shake up her life. She’d certainly accomplished that.

  “Congratulations,” the board president told Anna, shaking her hand.

  “Thank you.” She took the diploma and headed back toward her seat, knowing it was the end of an era.

  Okay. The scroll in her hand meant the era was officially over. What would the next one hold?

  Active Heroine

  Jack stood in the deserted second-floor hallway of Beverly Hills High School and unfolded the small note that Dee has slipped into his hand just after the graduates came off the stage. Dee had been heading into the tightly packed throng of family, friends, and well-wishers to find her parents, who had come to support her even though she wasn’t actually graduating. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Jack, but whatever.

  “Go to the second floor,” she’d whispered. “Then read this.”

  It was no problem getting to the school’s second floor—there was no security. Who would figure that anyone would visit classrooms or their lockers on this night? Jack went through the double wooden doors, up a stairwell illumined only by blue emergency lights, and emerged onto a long, carpeted hallway. Classrooms and offices lined both sides; strung across the hall was professionally printed banner: GOOD LUCK, GRADUATES!