by Carol Snow
From a plastic box in the uppermost reaches of Haley’s closet, Simone dug up a white miniskirt to go with the black tank top and tan sweater. The sweater was really loose around the neck—it actually slipped down one shoulder—but Simone assured me it was supposed to look that way. The slouchy calfskin boots she picked out were a half size too small and made my pinky toe hurt. I had to wear a hat, of course—something big to hide my brown hair, which Simone had already pinned up. After studying me for an uncomfortably long time, she plucked a black felt cowboy hat off of Haley’s shelf and rammed it on my head. She pursed her lips in distaste. “Hideous, but it will have to do.”
With Haley safely out of earshot, Simone explained the wardrobe. “I tried old Hollywood glamour with Haley, but it just wouldn’t take. When I wasn’t looking, she’d go right back to being Rodeo Jane.”
She reached her talons up to grab a plaid cowboy shirt with silver piping and mother-of-pearl buttons and yanked it from its hanger. “This has got to go.”
She scrunched the shirt into a little ball and shoved it into her handbag.
“So now we’re switching gears and going for urban cowgirl,” she droned. “Worn denim. Butter-soft leather. The occasional cowboy hat.” She shuddered. “To offset the hick factor, we’re accessorizing with some architectural pieces.”
She plucked a pair of big, white, Jackie O sunglasses from a shelf. “Try these on.”
Once she’d okayed the sunglasses, she hauled her enormous, slouchy handbag off the floor (today’s choice was copper metallic with lots of rings and studs) and dug around until she found a cosmetic bag. I closed my eyes and let her pat, powder, and draw on my face.
“There.” She angled me toward a full-length mirror. I opened my eyes and gasped. I looked very little like the mopey young woman in the next room but exactly like the starlet—sorry, star—who’d been gazing out from magazine covers for the past year. It was almost as if Haley Rush weren’t a real person but rather an airbrushed fantasy that Simone could conjure at will.
Jay, pacing around the living room, did a double take and almost dropped his cell phone. “Call you later.” He shoved his phone into a back pocket without taking his eyes off me.
“Pretty good, huh?” I said.
“Astonishing.”
I laughed. “I couldn’t believe it when I looked in the mirror. It really felt like Haley was looking back at me.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean now. I mean when you’re, you know. Out. As soon as you open your mouth, you ruin the illusion.”
“When we met, you said I sounded like her.”
“I was just saying that.”
“How am I supposed to order coffee without talking?”
“Well, obviously you have to talk a little, but keep it to a minimum. Just say what you want—a grande caramel macchiato with an extra shot of syrup. They ask if you want whipped cream, just nod. And nod again when they hand you the coffee—don’t say thank you.”
Now he was sounding paranoid. “You really think someone can tell I’m not Haley from two words?”
“Depends on the two words. For example, Haley never says thank you.”
I assumed Rodrigo would drive me to the coffee place. Instead, Jay handed me a set of keys. “Take the Escape Hybrid.” He led me through the kitchen to the garage.
The kitchen turned out to be just as disappointing as the façade: brown granite countertops, dark cabinets, commercial oven, stainless steel appliances—not a campfire, taxidermic animal, or copper pot in sight. Esperanza stood over the big sink, scrubbing a griddle.
“Pancakes again, Esperanza?” Jay asked with forced lightness.
She was listening to an iPod and didn’t respond.
A door at the end of the kitchen led to the garage. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the demure navy blue Escape Hybrid but a great, big, jacked up, kiss-my-ass yellow pickup truck.
“Oh, my.”
“Haley’s Tonka toy,” Jay said.
“Does she drive it much?”
“No. It’s such a gas guzzler, it’s bad for her image. She just likes knowing it’s here. Sometimes she’ll come out and sit in the driver seat without leaving the garage.”
“Well, that’s kind of . . . strange,” I said, regretting my words immediately.
Jay walked me over to the Escape and opened the front door for me. “It’s extremely strange.”
Starbucks was in the Sunset Plaza, a wide, charmless, urban street of clothing stores, comedy clubs, and restaurants. After parking on a side street, I dug my cell phone out of the handbag Simone had chosen. It was soft tan leather, with a row of fringe.
I locked the car, stuck the Jackie O sunglasses in the big handbag, and opened my cell phone. About a hundred yards down the street, the security guys watched me from one of the black SUVs. Jay had instructed them to keep an eye on me but stay out of things as much as possible. We wanted the public to see that Haley Rush was unafraid to pop out for a quick errand on her own.
“Big deal in the works,” I murmured into the silent phone, working my way toward the coffee shop while the SUV trailed at a comfortable distance. On the way down the hill, they had cut off a banged-up Camry that was riding a little too close on my tail.
“Lots of money,” I continued. “Mm. Mm hm. . . . Maybe I’ll buy a new car. Or an island. I’ve always wanted my own island . . .”
“Haley! Yo—Haley Rush!”
It took me a moment to realize the man on the sidewalk was talking to me. I looked up just as the flash went off. Did he really need a flash in the middle of the day?
He was middle-aged and stocky, with dark curly hair, thinning at the temples, and a three-day growth of beard. He wore baggy jeans, a black T-shirt, and running shoes. He bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin.
I waved with one pinky and smiled, my phone suddenly slippery in my sweaty hand. There. He got a shot. Would that be enough?
“And of course I’d need a private plane to get to my island,” I whispered into the phone, walking faster now. “Let’s put it in the contract.”
I thought the Starbucks barista would say, “Oh, my God—you’re Haley Rush!” Instead, in response to my whispered order, he just asked, “Would you like whipped cream with that?”
I thought the other patrons would stop what they were doing to stare at me or ask for an autograph, but they barely glanced at me before returning full attention to their MacBooks.
Haley wasn’t nearly as big a star as I thought she was, at least at this coffee shop. It was kind of disappointing.
As instructed, I took my coffee to an outside table, even though it was kind of cold. The raised concrete patio overlooked the busy street. The photographer stood just below, on the sidewalk. I refused eye contact as he hauled himself up and over the railing. There were a couple of others coming over now, like ants alerted to a sugar spill.
Hands shaking, I swapped my cell phone for Haley’s iPod and shoved the buds into my ears. Rap music: yuck. I scrolled through the menu, amazed that there were that many songs that I didn’t want to listen to. Finally, I settled on silence, gently bobbing my head to an imaginary beat.
As a prop, Jay had given me the script from an old episode of Kitty and the Katz. I set it on the table.
I heard cameras clicking, one close, others from down below. The first photographer had turned off the flash, at least. I straightened in my chair and took a sip of the coffee. It was way too sweet. Was there any chance that Haley could develop a newfound affection for plain coffee with skim milk?
Another click. I tilted my chin up so he could see my face below the enormous hat. I smiled.
“Nice,” he purred.
I pulled a pencil out of the big handbag and opened the script to a random page.
LIZA: If I didn’t know better, Kitty, I’d say you had a crush on Chase.
KITTY: What? No! [Crosses arms over chest.]
LIZA: [Leans forward] He is p
retty cute.
KITTY: [Looks up in mock bafflement] Is he? I’ve . . . I’ve . . . never noticed. [Cue laughter]
Click. I kept my head down. Surely he had enough shots already. I turned the page even though I hadn’t finished reading. I picked up the disgusting coffee and held it to my lips.
The camera lens loomed next to my face, startling me so much that I dropped the coffee. It spilled through the latticed table right onto my white skirt and the photographer’s sneakers.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, popping up.
Behind me, I heard laughter. Two young women in tight jeans and leather jackets gave me the thumbs-up.
“You go, girl,” one of them said.
“Next time, throw it in his face,” the other chimed in.
I rewarded their support with a great big Haley Rush smile. I put my things back into the big handbag, dropped my empty cup into a trash can, and headed back to the Escape. The coffee-soaked paparazzi stayed behind, saying “fuck, fuck, fuck” as he blotted his shoes with little napkins. The others—there were three now—trailed me along the sidewalk. The Escalade appeared as if out of nowhere.
One of the photographers waved to the blond, neckless driver, whose name, improbably enough, was Elliott. “What else is up for Haley today, boss?”
“That’s it for today, guys.”
Two of them drifted away. The third trailed me like a blood-thirsty mosquito.
Elliott held out his palm. “Knock it off, or I’ll cover her head the next time I see you.”
The photographer spit on the sidewalk, slung his big camera over a shoulder, and strode away.
I shot Elliott a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
He curled his lip a little and put up his tinted window.
Chapter Ten
I gave Jay the details of my coffee run, omitting the spilling incident.
“So, how do you . . . feel?” he asked, checking my face.
“What do you . . . mean?”
“Was it . . . okay?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Actually, it was kind of fun.”
He sighed with relief. “Okay, then. You’re hired. I mean, if you want to be.”
“Of course I do! When do I start? I’m free tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “I need to make some calls first. Schedule some appointments. Monday okay?”
I took my time getting home from Beverly Hills, stopping off at Ross to buy some desperately needed panty hose and at Ralph’s supermarket to get a plastic container of freshly prepared sushi: extravagant, yes, but I had cause for celebration.
With my new job in the bag, I didn’t really have to take a subbing assignment, but when the phone rang early Friday morning, I answered it, anyway.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Margery, the school secretary, said.
“I was up,” I croaked unconvincingly.
“Right. Well. Mrs. Ortega just called in sick—something stomach-related—so we were wondering if you’d be able to take over P.E. today.”
Gym class: ugh. I definitely should have let the phone ring.
I checked the clock. I had plenty of time to get ready.
“Sure, Margery. No problem.”
The Motts had assigned my van a little dirt patch on the side of the driveway. I had almost made it to the street when Deborah came running out of her house, her chunky bathrobe flapping behind her like a cape.
“Veronica! So glad I caught you. Are you going to school today?”
I considered lying but was pretty sure she’d find out. I nodded, glancing at the clock on my dashboard.
“Fabulous. If you’ll wait two seconds, I’ll get the kids.”
It was way more than two seconds, of course, but that wasn’t the worst of it. As Shaun and Shavonne piled into the back of my van, Shaun trailing Sugar Pops, Deborah said, “Also, I was wondering—can you take Shaun to that Cub Scout thing tomorrow night?”
I shook my head in confusion. “What Cub Scout thing?”
“You know, that thing at the Brea Dam. Campfire and night hike, I think. I called Hank, but he said you had Ben this weekend.”
“I do, but Hank usually does the Scout stuff.” Den and pack meetings were on Thursday nights. “I’ll call him.”
There is no good day to sub in P.E., but this was a particularly bad one. It was unusually cold and windy, even for February. In my khaki pants, blue blouse, and cardigan, I was more warmly dressed than most of the kids (at least a quarter of the boys wore shorts year-round), but they only had to be outside for fifty-minute stretches; I was stuck out there all day.
The Las Palmas Elementary School physical education program encouraged fitness without competitiveness. As such, today was a hula hoop day: bad news for me, since it meant hauling endless armloads of hoops from the storage shed. After watching two classes of bright-eyed kids attempt (and occasionally succeed) at keeping the hoops aloft on their hips, I finally gave it a try: if nothing else, the movement might thaw my body. I’d almost (but not really) mastered it when I noticed a sixth grade boy pointing me out to his friends and laughing.
I definitely should have let the phone ring.
At lunchtime, I called Hank.
“So this Cub Scout thing tomorrow night . . .”
“Oh! Right. Did you get my e-mail?”
“My Internet’s been down since November.”
“Really?”
“I told you that.” Several times. “Anyway, since Cub Scouts is your father-son thing, it’s fine if you want to take Ben. You can just drop him off afterwards.”
“Oh, wow.” Hank paused—too long. “That’s really nice of you to offer, Roni. It’s just, Darcy and I . . . she’s got this client with a timeshare in Palm Springs. He couldn’t use it this weekend, so he offered it to us.”
“Palm Springs?”
“Well, Palm Desert, actually. Nice place—two bedrooms, gourmet kitchen, golf course view. As long as we’re childless for the weekend, Darcy and I thought it would be a great opportunity to de-stress.”
De-stress? Hank hadn’t worked in over a year! What could possibly be stressing him out?
“I wish you had told me about the Cub Scout thing earlier,” I said, my teeth clenched.
“It’s no big deal. Actually, it should be fun—I’m sorry to have to miss it. I’ll e-mail you the specifics.”
I paused for a moment to keep from screaming. “My e-mail doesn’t work.”
“Oh. Ha! Right. You just told me that.”
Shaun Mott, early for once, appeared at the guesthouse door at 5:30 Saturday evening, his curly red hair puffing out from the sides of his Cub Scout hat like a clown. Chilly air blew in around him. “My mom told me to come over.”
“We don’t need to be at the park for a half hour.” I had just taken a very hot shower and had about five minutes to dry my hair before it could be classified as Beyond Repair. “I’ll come get you when we’re ready.”
“My mom told me to.” Shaun clomped into the little house and plopped down on the loveseat, where he proceeded to stare, dull-eyed, into space.
Ben, sprawled on the floor with an army of plastic superheroes, eyed Shaun’s hat, shirt, and neckerchief. “Are we supposed to be in uniform?”
Shaun’s lip curled into a sneer. “Uh—yeah.”
Ben looked at me, panicked. “My uniform’s at Dad’s house.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I said in the fake-calm voice I adopted whenever Ben freaked out because something was at the wrong house. “We’ll go get it.” My hair was going to look like crap.
“But Dad’s not there,” he whimpered.
Oops. “So, we’ll get it from the housekeeper.”
“She doesn’t work on Saturday or Sunday.” Darcy did her own dishes two days a week? Now that was shocking.
Shaun’s uniform was a different color from Ben’s: beige instead of blue. It had something to do with rank or age or . . . whatever.
“Hey—I bet Shaun’s got an old uniform you can borrow!
Don’t you, Shaun?”
“My mom gives all our old uniforms to this place that collects stuff for poor kids.”
In the end, Ben wore his blue Las Palmas Elementary T-shirt over another, long-sleeved shirt. Because of the temperature, he had to wear his heaviest coat (which was actually just a lined, hooded sweatshirt). “So no one will know what you’ve got on underneath, anyway,” I chirped.
“I wish I had my hat,” he said, lips quivering.
A little before six o’clock, we headed for the minivan, my hands shaking from the cold as I pulled keys from my purse. Somewhere I had gloves—I kept them in the front hall closet when I lived with Hank—but I had no idea where they were. There were so many boxes I had never unpacked.
Deborah Mott, attired in blue jeans (she’d managed to get dressed at some point during the day), came out of the side door, two colorful cardboard cartons in her hands.
“Twenty-four Capri Suns.” She heaved the cartons at me.
Oh, God. “Was I supposed to . . . bring something?”
“Didn’t you get the scoutmaster’s e-mail?”
I shook my head. Damned Internet.
“They assigned something to everyone. It was in the e-mail.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Brr. Chilly. Well, you all have fun!”
“Benji? Did Daddy mention anything about bringing something tonight?”
“No.”
I tried Hank’s cell phone: no answer. It was getting late, anyway; there was no time to pick anything up. Oh, well. The Cub Scout pack was huge. They wouldn’t notice some little thing missing.
In the dusty parking lot, I slid my big red minivan next to Terri Sheffler’s even bigger gray SUV. The vehicle was easy to identify by the license plate (FAB♥FIVE) and the row of stick figures on the back window. The stickers showed two parents, three kids, two dogs, and a cat, with a name underneath each: Terri, John, Ashlyn, Blaine, Tyler, Angel (dog #1), Laker (dog #2), and Duck (cat).