Allie parked behind the limousine in the tunnel. Penny pulled her purse up onto her shoulder, picked up the bread bag, and got out of the car.
“Mom.” Allie was whispering even though no one was nearby. “You can’t take the coke.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not mine!”
“Well, just let me have a little bit. Jet won’t spend money on drugs anymore. I told you. He’s as tight as . . . as whatever.”
“Yeah, I know. But you can’t take the coke. I need to return it. Or most of it. Or something.”
Penny huffed, “Oh, come on! There must be a couple kilos in here!” She marched off with the bread bag through the door that had the word TALENT in gray spray-painted block letters on it. Allie rushed after her.
Several people, mostly roadies, were milling around the talent area, which was a hallway with what Allie guessed were dressing rooms off of it. Penny seemed to know where she was going, so Allie followed behind, keeping an eye on the Wonder Bread bag. Penny was swinging it back and forth as if she were about to hurl it.
“Don’t drop the coke,” Allie whispered.
They turned into a large communal dressing room that appeared to have been decorated with cast-off seventies furniture. There were black leather belts with giant gold buckles holding the cushions to the orange plaid couch. And the club chair was made of orangy-red rubber—it looked inflated and cartoonish. No one was there but Penny and Allie.
“Wait here while I go to the sound check,” Penny said, and she walked out with the bag of coke.
“Don’t do any more of that!” Allie called after her mother, but Penny didn’t answer.
Allie sat on the couch and looked around the room. She had spent a lot of her life waiting for her mother. What difference did another twenty or thirty minutes make?
After an hour spent reading the three magazines from the three-legged coffee table (Sassy, Rolling Stone, and Interview), Allie got up and used the bathroom. The bathroom fan was so loud it sounded like there was a helicopter hovering in the room. When Allie emerged, she was startled to see everyone from Mighty Zamboni around her, mid-action, as if they’d been there all along.
Johnny and John-John, Mighty Zamboni’s guitarists, who were lovers and looked like twins, were sorting through a rolling rack of clothes debating what to wear. When the band was at its peak, Johnny and John-John had each had a wild spray of white hair. Now they both were bald.
The drummer, Tigger, was sitting in the oversize chair, reading Hollywood Wives. He still had the same mop of brown hair he’d had when Allie was a little girl. Tigger had always been Allie’s favorite. He was smiley. And fat enough that there was no point in trying to pretend he was one of the cool people of the world.
Jet was sitting on the end of the couch, a glass of what looked like scotch in one hand, one leg swung over the arm so his leather-bound crotch was neatly displayed. Penny sat beside him.
“Hey,” Allie said, to the room in general. Johnny and John-John looked at her and nodded their chins. Tigger lowered his book into his lap.
“We haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m in college now,” Allie said, and she went to the couch and sat beside her mother.
“Jet, remember Allie?” Penny said.
“Mom, I was just with him at the hotel.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot!” Penny laughed and bounced against the back of the couch.
Jet ignored them both, then lifted his glass and emptied it.
When she was younger, Penny used to tell Allie that she was the Yoko Ono of Mighty Zamboni and that’s why the band didn’t treat her or Allie very well. But Allie never took it personally. None of these guys had families, although Johnny had three kids with a Swedish woman who sometimes sent the kids on tour with him. Each of them, including Allie’s mother, seemed so far off from the world of families that it was impossible to imagine any of them having to think about others.
“I need the bathroom.” Penny stood up and left with the bag of coke. Allie took a deep breath. She hoped she could somehow reconcile the amount missing with the amount she was to return to Jonas when her mother was done with the bag.
“You know, you look totally different now than you did two years ago,” Jet said. “That’s why I was confused about who you were.”
“I look exactly the same,” Allie said, and turned her head away.
“No you don’t. You didn’t have boobs two years ago. You didn’t have hips. You were a skinny little kid. And now you’re a woman. Or womany-ish. You can’t blame me for not recognizing you. When Penny told me you were coming I was expecting this little girl.”
“Penny didn’t know I was coming. I was a surprise.”
“I mean if she had told me you were coming. If she had said, Jet, Allie’s coming, I would have been looking out for some skinny little kid with frizzy red hair.”
“My hair’s not frizzy.”
“It was. Two years ago.”
Tigger looked over the top of his book as if he were appraising Allie’s hair. “Your hair does look a lot better,” he said.
“Fine. Whatever.” Allie’s hair had been frizzy. She had never known what to do with her curls, so she had washed them and brushed them, and the end result was a vibrating head full of wiry red hair. Eventually she figured out that she shouldn’t shampoo her hair—just rinse it, condition it, and run her fingers or a comb through it every couple days.
Penny came out of the bathroom and sat down on the couch between Allie and Jet. “Fucking great bathroom!” she said. “Amazing. Totally amazing bathroom. Huge. Huge fucking bathroom. And there’s a bathtub in there!” She wiped her finger along the bottom of her nose. Allie put her hand on the bread bag and tried to pull it out of her mother’s grip, but Penny wouldn’t let go.
“Let’s go to catering. I’m hungry,” Jet said, and he hoisted himself off the couch and walked out of the room, the empty glass still in his hand. Tigger put down the book and followed. Johnny and John-John went, too. Once they’d left the room, Penny opened the bag, stuck her long red pinky nail in, and did a few little heaps of coke. Allie forced herself to stop keeping track of how much her mother took. This was beyond her control.
“Mom,” Allie said, “do you and Jet really have an open relationship?” The thought repulsed her, but her curiosity was greater than her distaste.
“No! Where did you get that idea? Do I look like someone who would have an open relationship! Please!” Penny unwound the bag and took another hit.
“Uh, well . . .” Allie wasn’t sure if she should give her mother the truth or not. Then she remembered Wai Po saying A SPARK CAN START A FIRE THAT BURNS THE ENTIRE PRAIRIE, and decided she didn’t want her words, her story with Jet, to be the spark that caused any fires in her mother’s life.
“Well what?” Penny said. She jiggled her feet and wiped her nose.
“The guy I was working for, Jonas? He pulled out his dick at work yesterday.” Allie hadn’t intended to share this story with her mother, but it felt right at the time, like she were indirectly telling her about Jet exposing his penis.
“Oh honey!” Penny wrapped an arm around Allie and pulled her in for a hug. “Men can be such dorks! Was that the first penis you’d ever seen?”
“No, not really. I had a boyfriend but we broke up.”
“You had a boyfriend?! That’s so exciting!” Penny squeezed Allie again. “So, are you a virgin or not?”
“Not,” Allie said, and she felt herself blushing.
“Sweetie, believe me—” Penny picked up Allie’s hand and held it—“that’s not going to be the first time some man whips out his dick. Now that you’re more womanly you have to get used to ignoring them. Just look away and walk away.”
Allie was stunned to hear that this was a part of the experience of growing into a woman. But she couldn’t say her mother was wrong. In only two days, two entire penises had been displayed for her. It did seem doubly sad, however, th
at one of them had belonged to her mother’s boyfriend.
“Now.” Penny let go of Allie’s hand and stood. She was still holding the bread bag. “Let’s forget about this Judah’s penis business and go eat!”
“His name’s Jonas,” Allie said, and she followed her mother to the door.
Chapter 7
Billy Idol and his band were also in the County Bowl dining room that served the performers and their roadies. They were sitting at a round table, like a family, laughing and shouting over each other to be heard.
Mighty Zamboni sat at another round table. They were silent, grunting.
Billy Idol was even more beautiful in person. This, Allie thought, was one of the few advantages to her mother: real live access to her celebrity fantasy. Billy Idol’s eyes were enormous, like giant hooded buckeyes. His nostrils flared on either side of a perfectly centered slice of nose. Of course there was the hair—white as cocaine, spiked up like a sea anemone. And then the mouth, that wonderfully snarling, pulpy mouth. Allie had spent many hours imagining Billy Idol’s curled lips biting into her own lips. And now that he was only a few feet away, Allie was convinced that an encounter with Billy Idol might be like painting Liquid Paper over her memory of Marc. She would only remember Marc had been there when she scratched away the surface.
Billy Idol was holding a fork with something red and runny falling off it while he laughed so hard that he had to push his chair back from the table. He was one of the most joyful people Allie had ever seen. She wanted his joy to rub off on her.
“Are you opening for him?” Allie kept her eyes on Billy as she talked to her mother.
“We’re not opening for him,” Jet said. “We’re the first act and he’s the second act.”
“Isn’t the first act the opener?” Allie looked at Jet and smiled. She knew she was being cruel, but she couldn’t help it.
“Not necessarily,” Jet said. “You don’t know anything about this business.” Everyone was silent for a moment. Allie poked at her tamale. It wasn’t half as good as the ones Consuela had made for her earlier. The dining room had a buffet with both Italian and Mexican food. Allie took the Mexican food, just like her mother. A love for Mexican food was one of the few things she and Penny had always had in common.
“Do you know them?” Allie asked. “Can you introduce me?”
“To Billy Idol?” Penny said. “Oh honey, you don’t want to meet him.”
“Yes, I do.”
“We’re not allowed to talk to them,” Tigger said. “Billy said some unflattering things about us in a radio interview.” Tigger had both Mexican and Italian food on his plate. It was heaped high, like a serving platter.
“Don’t even fucking look at them!” Jet said. Allie kept staring.
“Allie, please listen to your stepfather!” Penny said.
Allie laughed. “My stepfather? He didn’t even recognize me! And you two aren’t married!”
“Ah, but Jet and the Queen of Hearts got married in Las Vegas,” Tigger said.
Penny turned to Allie. “The Queen of Hearts is what they call me now that Jet and I are legal. You know all these other women have wanted to marry him over the years—”
“But the Queen of Hearts decapitated the competition!” Jet said, and he did a karate chop in the air.
“Wait, I’m confused. What do you mean you got married?” Allie felt like she wasn’t getting the joke. Her mother, as far as she knew, was married to her father, Frank.
“We were doing a show in Vegas last July,” Tigger said, “and Jet had a little too much to drink and—”
“He thought your mom was this Chinese stripper we met after the show!” John-John said. Jet and the rest of the band, save Penny, laughed loudly. Allie got the feeling they were trying to out-laugh Billy Idol’s group.
“He did not think I was the stripper!” Penny said. “That was a joke.” Penny looked at Allie with frowny concern. “Wipe that worry off your face, honey! It really was a joke. There was this Chinese stripper who was hanging around backstage and everyone kept teasing that Jet thought he was marrying her. But he didn’t. He never even talked to her.”
“Yeah, I only had eyes for the Queen of Hearts!” Jet said. The band burst out laughing again.
“They just love to tease me about this,” Penny said to Allie. “It’s their on-running gag.”
“So you two really did get married? Like a serious, legal commitment?” Allie felt nauseous. Could she and her mother be so distant that Allie didn’t even know she’d married—again—a year ago?!
“Of course. It’s totally legitimate and the hooker wasn’t even in the chapel.” It appeared that Penny had forgotten she had ever been married to Frank, even though the evidence of that relationship was sitting right beside her.
Jet shrugged his shoulders, still laughing, then hunched over his plate to eat. There was a shine on his chin from fettuccini sauce.
A thunderclap of laughter erupted from Billy Idol’s table. Everyone looked over except Jet, who stayed focused on his food.
“Mom,” Allie whispered into Penny’s ear. “Aren’t you still legally married to Dad?” Penny kicked Allie’s foot under the table and shook her head nervously.
“Yes, you are. You’re married to Dad!” Allie whispered again.
“Don’t worry about it,” Penny said.
“What are you two whispering about?” Jet asked. He sounded like an angry old man.
“Billy Idol,” Allie said.
“You’re not allowed to talk about him,” Jet said. “No singer from England is worth talking about! Pretend he isn’t there.”
Allie turned in her seat so she was directly facing Billy Idol’s table. She caught the star’s eye. His lip curled up as his eye clicked shut in a wink. Allie felt a flush of electricity run across her skin. The current was so strong it momentarily wiped out any anguish she had over discovering her mother’s additional marriage.
Penny took the Wonder Bread bag on stage. Allie could barely believe it. She hadn’t seen a move like that since fourth grade, when Dorothy Lancaster took Allie’s Malibu Barbie, insisted it was her own Malibu Barbie (once upon a time, they each had one), and carried it around everywhere at school, tucking Barbie into her armpit as she leaned over the desk to write.
Allie stood in the dusty dark of the wings, watching the show. The salesgirls to whom her mother had given the passes were singing along to every song, standing as close to the edge of the stage as possible. Allie thought she saw tears in one girl’s eyes when the band started playing “Miracle Oracle Lovers,” a song that Allie had always thought was so stupid as to be embarrassing ( . . . the oracle of love has declared the miracle of love within the debacle of . . .).
Allie turned and left the backstage area.
Billy Idol was alone on the grubby plaid couch in the lounge where Allie had hung out earlier with Mighty Zamboni. He was reading Sassy magazine.
“Hey!” Allie stood in the doorway, leaning in. Her head felt cloudy and wet with nerves and excitement.
“C’mon in!” Billy Idol said, in his wonderfully choppy British accent. “I’m catchin’ up on my literature!” When he said literature, it sounded like lit-tra-chure.
“Anything good I should know?” Allie asked. She sat on the red puffy chair and tried to arrange her body so that she looked leaner, sleeker—one leg crossed over the other, her head held up as if by a string.
“Ya! If you use a bleedin’ eyelash-curler before puttin’ on mascara it will make your eyes look bigger.” Billy Idol sneered.
“Good one!” Allie couldn’t believe she was actually having a conversation with Billy Idol. She was so in love with him that the chaos, danger, and disasters that had preceded this moment almost seemed worth it, because all that stuff—including the bread bag that she’d love to forget—had led her here.
“You with Mighty Zamboni?”
“No,” Allie said, too quickly. She realized she was embarrassed by Mighty Zamboni.
&nbs
p; “But I eyed you over there eatin’ with them.”
“My mother’s the tambourine girl. But she moved away when I was eight. I don’t really know her.”
“The Chinese bird?”
“Yeah, she’s half.”
“So you’re a quarter.”
“Yeah. What are you?”
“White boy,” Billy Idol said, and laughed.
“You dye your hair, right?”
“Oh yeah. I think it’s really a mucky brown or something like that. Makes me look all rock ’n’ roll, don’t it?”
“I like the white,” Allie said. She hoped Billy Idol would talk to her about his hair color for hours. Or talk to her about anything, as the sound of his voice was as beautiful to Allie as the sound of his music.
“I like your red. Funny. A Chinese with red hair. Bloody hilarious.”
“I guess.” Allie smiled.
“I’m goin’ to write a song about you. ‘China Girl with Red Hair.’ ” Billy started thumping out a beat on his black leather thighs.
“My dad’s black,” Allie said.
“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me!” Billy Idol laughed.
“No, I’m serious. And I have one Jewish grandfather. He’s dead.”
“You’re a fuckin’ bloody ’malgamation of the whole fuckin’ world, aren’t you?” Billy Idol grinned.
“I guess.” After so many years of following Wai Po’s wishes that she pretend to be white, Allie had never realized how cool her black-Jewish-Asianness was. Now that she saw it through Billy Idol’s eyes, it actually seemed like something to be proud of.
“You’re like the bleedin’ United Nations in one bloody girl-package, are you not?” His grin spread wider.
“Maybe.” Allie smiled. There was silence for a moment. And because she had no idea what to say next, how to keep this conversation running, Allie offered the only thing she thought might capture Billy Idol’s interest longer than her Chinese-black-Jewishness. “Do you want some coke?”
“You got some fuckin’ coke? What’s a China-blackie-Jew like you doin’ with coke?”
The Wonder Bread Summer: A Novel Page 11