The Profile Match

by Jill Williamson

  What had happened was that Kip had gotten off easy, first offence and all that. I hadn’t gone to the hearing, but Lukas had said they’d deferred judgment because Kip had come clean and admitted the truth—or a version of it, anyway. He’d had to do some drug rehab program. Was still in it, for all I knew.

  The warning bell rang, and I stepped into class.

  “You’ll tell her, Spencer?” Kip asked me from the hallway. “That I say, ‘Hi’?”

  Not in a million years, but I said, “I’ll try to remember.”

  ● ● ●

  I passed Mary Stopplecamp coming into the gym that afternoon as I was leaving practice.

  She stopped. “Hi, Spencer.”

  “Hey.” I waited a minute, and when our little staring fest started to get weird, said, “Got something to tell me?”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “I’m headed out to do a little investigating—totally approved by the LAFO and your dad and everything. But I just saw you and wondered . . .”

  She folded her arms. “Am I really that bad? Every time you see me you think I’m going to prophecy your doom?”

  I laughed. “Pretty much, yeah. Well, not every time. I only wondered because of where I’m going today.”

  “Well, I have nothing for you. But I’ll pray for your safety.”

  “Okay, thanks, Mair.”

  And she walked away. Not even curious where I was going. For claiming to be my future wife, you’d think she could show a little more concern.

  When I got home, Grandma wasn’t there, so I pulled up the recent 310 number that Director Jeff Moreland had called from and placed my own call.

  “Los Angeles Field Office, Director Moreland’s office,” a guy said. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Yeah, this is Spencer Garmond. I’m calling for Mr. Moreland.”

  “Hey, Spencer. This is Tony Watkins.”

  Beth’s brother. “What are you, Moreland’s secretary?”

  “Administrative assistant,” Watkins said.

  Sounded like a secretary to me. “Okay, well, I’m calling because I’m supposed to check in verbally with him before and after I meet with people connected to MacCormack.”

  “Director Moreland is in a meeting,” Watkins said, “but I’m authorized to take down this information. I’ve already created a log to keep track. Where are you going, and who are you expecting to see?”

  Impressive that someone so burly was this organized. “I’m going to Brittany Holmes’s house to see her. She said some of her friends would be there, but she didn’t name names.”

  “Brittany Holmes the actress?” Watkins asked.

  “Yep. She’s pals with MacCormack.”

  “Because she’s in his movies,” Watkins said, as if this all just fell into place in his mind.

  “Yep.” I realized I hadn’t mentioned knowing Brittany Holmes or that she might be involved in this, so I went ahead and did that. “I met her at the premiere of Jolt IV and think she might be involved in Diane’s cult. I figured I’d touch base with her, and she invited me over.”

  “Some assignment, huh?” Watkins said.

  I couldn’t help it. I grinned. “You don’t know. She could try and kill me.”

  Watkins snorted. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that.”

  So did I. “Well, I’m going, so log it on the chart or whatever. Also, I emailed MacCormack last night, and he wrote back this morning, invited me to dinner next Friday.”

  “You really dangled yourself out there like a carrot, didn’t you?” Watkins said.

  “That’s the job, isn’t it? I’ll call when I’m back from Brittany’s place.”

  “I’m going to need her address,” he said. “For the log.”

  “Sure.” I laughed, then read the address off Brittany’s text.

  “Well, have fun,” Watkins said.

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  I hung up, then opened my iBook and checked the surveillance cams I’d left at Kimbal’s place. Even after he’d returned from his mystery vacation, he was never home. And when he did come in, he watched TV or went straight to bed. Never had people over. Never talked on the phone or got on his computer or did anything interesting. Did he know someone was watching? Or maybe he was just the most boring human being on the face of planet earth.

  I called Grandma’s school and left a message that I was going out. Then I wrote her a note saying where, which I left pinned to the middle of her chair where she couldn’t miss it. Then I jumped in the Banana and headed for the freeway.

  I took the 134 to the 101, then got off in Studio City and took Laurel Canyon Boulevard up into the hills. The traffic was steady on the winding, two-land road. Tons of people used this as an alternate route to Hollywood to avoid taking the freeways. It gave me a lot of time to pray about where I was going and what I’d be doing when I got there.

  Eventually, my GPS had me turn right onto Lookout Mountain Avenue, which was a narrow road without even dividing lines in the center. The speed limit was only twenty-five through here. The road took me higher into the hills. The houses got a little bigger, crammed right up close to the road. I could almost reach out and touch them as I drove by. Between them, I could see houses hanging off the next hill over. I always thought it was weird—people who lived off the side of a cliff like this.

  I came to the end of the road and took a right onto Appian Way until I finally reached Sunset Plaza Drive. The Banana just kept climbing. Sometimes I could see little but blue sky ahead, though on my right, between the houses, I could see all the way to downtown.

  Nice view.

  I was close now, so I slowed the Banana to a crawl and glanced from my phone GPS to the houses around me. I couldn’t see much. The mini-mansions were hidden by trees and bushes and the hillside. The driveways were nothing but a concrete slab before a garage door. When I was sure I’d found the right one, I pulled in and turned off my car in front of four fancy garage doors—one that was big enough for two cars, then three more single-car doors. Trouble was, I didn’t see a front door or even a walkway to find a front door. What I could see of the house was super modern. Flat, pancake-like levels that reminded me of my dentist’s office. Talk about Snob Hill.

  I got out and found a buzzer on the wall outside garage door number one. I pushed it.

  About ten seconds passed, then a man’s voice came out of the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Spencer Garmond here,” I said, wanting to sound like I was expected.

  The garage door started to open. When it was high enough, I ducked under and walked inside. On my left, sat a white Fiat. Next to it, a shiny black Aston Martin. And on the far end, parked in the middle behind the two-car garage door, was a red Jaguar. I took a quick selfie with the Aston Martin and texted it to Lukas. Straight ahead of me was a silvery door. I knocked on it.

  A maid—I knew she was a maid because she was wearing a black dress with a white apron—opened the door.

  “Right this way,” she said in a thick, Latino accent.

  I followed her inside. We passed through a living room, a kitchen, a second living room, and a rec room with a pool table and a foosball table. The place was all stark white and windows, with black frames and accents. We approached a set of sliding glass doors at the back of the rec room, and I heard laughter and a splash.

  The maid gestured me outside, so I stepped onto a patio overlooking a swimming pool and most of L.A. A half dozen people were swimming. Another group was clustered on some couches beside an outdoor fireplace. The smell of pot on the air was hard to miss. It was legal in California now. For adults. I saw Brittany by the couches and headed that way, suddenly nervous to meet the friends of a famous actress.

  Our eyes met while I was still about ten yards back. She jumped up. “Spencer, over here.” She left the group and met me just outside the circle of couches. She was taller than most girls I hung around with and was wearing heels, so when she took my hands, I didn’t have to lean too far fo
r her lips to find first my right cheek, then the left.

  Of course. Hollywood greetings. Kiss, kiss.

  Brittany, now holding only one of my hands, spun back to the cluster of couches and tugged me toward the group. “Guys, this is my friend Spencer. He plays college basketball.”

  Ouch. I wanted to say, “Not yet, girlie,” but instead I went with, “Hey.”

  “Who you play for?” a guy asked. Wait. That was Dennis Wylde, the actor.

  “Uh, no one yet,” I said. “I’m still talking to recruiting coaches. Looking at UA and Arizona State.”

  “Arizona?” Dennis frowned. “Why not UCLA?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” I said, “but UCLA isn’t calling me back.”

  “I hear you,” Dennis said. “That’s how I ended up in that Disney Channel movie.”

  The group laughed.

  Brittany took that moment to introduce those seated there. Dennis Wylde, an Asian model named Yíjūn who was almost as tall as me, a curvy Black girl named Kayla, and a pale dude wearing a ton of eyeliner who was sucking on a vape mod.

  Holy figs, I knew him. It was Blaine, the blade of grass. He and his pal Tito had abducted me sophomore year. He still looked like a trendy vampire, all thin and dressed in black. The guyliner was new. He lifted his chin at me and sucked on his mod, then blew a cloud of vapor out his nose.

  What to say? I’d be a fool to pretend I didn’t find him at least familiar. “Have we met?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so,” he said, taking another puff.

  “Blaine does a lot of extra work,” Brittany said. “I’ve bet you’ve seen him in fifty movies.”

  “That must be it,” I said, smirking at him.

  I was pretty sure Blaine knew exactly why I recognized him.

  He extended his arm, offering me the mod. “Want a hit?”

  “Thanks, no,” I said, sitting down beside Brittany.

  A couple blonde girls approached us from the pool, dripping water all over the deck like they’d just walked out of a beer commercial. I couldn’t stop staring at them—and not because they were amazingly hot, which they were—but because they both had grid marks on their arms, like the ones in Brittany’s last Jolt movie. They’d been taking a lot of iVitrax, which was a meth-like drug that could be taken in a wide variety of ways. The most popular, aside from adding it to brownies (ahem) was to take it by mouth in petal form or to inject it into the arm with grid shooters, which were these bandage like patches with a rectangle of short little needles.

  “This is Claudia and Meg,” Brittany said, not bothering to say which was which. Orange Bikini, who had wide, brown eyes, sat on my right. Black Bikini went and sat by Blaine, took his mod, and helped herself.

  “Hi,” Orange Bikini said.

  I gave her a smile and tried not to stare at her grid marks. Or anything else. Her face looked really familiar, but I didn’t know why. Something about those eyes.

  “The bar is open, if you want anything,” Brittany said. “And Arne can fix you something to eat, if you’re hungry.”

  I glanced in the direction she’d pointed. Sure enough, there was a covered bar with some guy behind the counter, ready to serve. Brittany had employees. Crazy.

  “How many people you got working for you in this house?” I asked.

  “Three,” she said. “A maid, a chef, and a gardener.”

  “Plus she has Ricki and Davy,” Orange Bikini said. “But they don’t live here.’

  Her staff lived with her? “Who are Ricki and Davy?” I asked.

  “Ricki is my manager,” Brittany said. “Davy is my personal assistant.”

  “They got the day off?” I asked.

  “I’m between movies right now, so I don’t see Ricki every day. And I sent Davy shopping.”

  “What for?” I asked. “I’m curious what was on an actress’s shopping list.”

  She shrugged. “Socks, a flash drive, some tampons.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  Dennis burst into an overly eager guffaw and punched my arm. “I like this kid. He’s funny. You still in high school, then?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Senior.”

  “That’s good. Britt needs more friends her age.”

  “Spencer’s more like Meg’s age, Denny,” Brittany said. “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Close enough. Gimme that.” Dennis snatched the mod from Black Bikini and took a hit.

  And so passed the next three hours.

  I learned about Dennis’s dirt biking hobby and how Claudia—Black Bikini—seemed to worship him. Meg—Orange Bikini—was an actress on a Netflix show called EverEyes. I’d seen the billboards around the city—a close-up of her eyes—but I hadn’t seen the show.

  I’d be watching it tonight.

  I talked to Meg more than anyone else. She was from Montreal and had a bit of a Canadian accent. EverEyes shot in Vancouver, BC, but she was spending the off season in LA doing promos and auditions for movies. She was only seventeen, but her parents had rented her an apartment, and she was down here on her own.

  What a crazy life.

  The vape mod made the rounds, and while I declined a hit, I was starting to feel a hint of a second-hand buzz. Arne made me the best pastrami sandwich I’d ever had, and eating something helped my growing headache.

  Brittany’s friends were all involved with the Free Light Youth, the organization that linked MacCormack’s movies to Diane’s international nonprofit. They talked about upcoming Jolt Revolt parties they were all going to.

  “You really just go to random people’s parties?” I asked.

  “It’s important to us that our fans know we aren’t better than them,” Brittany said.

  Dennis winked. “That they think it, anyway.”

  “You promote FLY through the Jolt movies?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Brittany said. “The movies help build the fandom, and the fandom is the Free Light Youth. They’re incredibly loyal and eager to learn all we know.”

  “And what is it you know?” I asked.

  Brittany shook her head. “Huh-uh. You’ve got to come to a Jolt Revolt to find out.”

  “I went to Kip’s Jolt Revolt,” I said. “I got arrested and lost my offer from Arizona State.”

  “You did?” Meg asked.

  I told the story.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” Brittany said, even though I was pretty sure she already knew. “We want our FLYs to be safe. And if the cops are showing up, that’s a good sign that things are getting out of hand.”

  “iVitrax will do that to a person,” I said.

  “Not if it’s handled correctly,” Brittany said.

  “Was your friend able to lead the séance?” Meg asked.

  She said “séance” like she was asking if Brittany’s assistant had found those socks. “He started it,” I said, “but the cops ended it.”

  “Did you hear the words, though?” Meg asked.

  “They were the same words from the movie,” I said, feeling bolder by the second.

  Meg grinned at Brittany. “He knows enough. We could invite him to a Dawning Party, couldn’t we?”

  “He should probably attend another Jolt Revolt first.” Brittany looked at me, as if pondering breaking some major rule. “But since you’re so busy with basketball, I suppose we could make an exception. I’ll text you when I have dates for the next one.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not really sure what I’d gotten myself into. Time to switch gears. “You seen MacCormack lately?”

  “Talked to him a few days ago but haven’t seen him in a few weeks. You?”

  “We’re going to have dinner on Saturday night,” I said.

  “That’s great, Spencer,” Brittany said. “I’m glad you guys are talking again. He’s a great guy, really.”

  I wondered if she believed that or if lying was just another part of her job as one of MacCormack’s she-minions.

  ● ● ●

  Before I left Brittany’s place, Meg an
d I exchanged cell numbers. She was a huge Lakers fan and wanted to keep in touch with “Mr. NCAA.”

  I put my phone on speaker and called Moreland’s office from the car on the way home. Watkins was still screening his boss’s calls, so I gave him the update on my adventure.

  “Dennis Wylde was there?” Watkins said. “Oh, man, that’s awesome.”

  “He’s kind of full of himself,” I said. “But Meg Farland was nice.”

  “That girl from EverEyes?”

  “That’s what she said. Is it any good?”

  “It’s great. I gotta confess, I hate that this is your life and not mine.”

  I laughed. “Tonight was kind of fun, but trust me, going to MacCormack’s and talking to Diane will be as creepy as spending Halloween in a cemetery.”

  Watkins grilled me a while longer, though his questions told me he was more starstruck by my adventure that he was interested in finding out details his boss would care about.

  When I walked into the house, Grandma was sitting in her chair, reading her Bible. She put it down, then let me have it.

  “Part of the deal we made with you investigating this director is that you inform the field office and me when you go out and return.”

  “I called the preschool, and I left a note,” I said.

  “A note is not the same as a phone call, Spencer. From now on, I want to speak to you before you see any of those people.”

  “Sorry, Grandma.” Imagine James Bond having to check with his mommy before he could chase the bad guys. Didn’t seem like a very effective strategy.

  Apparently, my answer satisfied Grandma, because she asked, “So, how did it go?”

  I sat down on the couch and filled her in, then I headed to my bedroom. First I recorded a YouTube video. It had been too long since I’d checked in with my followers, and I owed them a post. When that was uploading, I opened my bible to the book of Joshua. The verse inscribed on the back on my necklace came from chapter one of this book. I’d always liked the verse, so I decided to take Arianna’s advice and start my Bible reading here. Joshua and I both had the need of being strong and courageous in common, so I figured this was as good of place as any to start reading.