Just Like Me, Only Better

by Carol Snow

“It’ll be a few hours,” Rodrigo said into the phone, leaning forward, eyes on the ground. “But maybe we can do a late lunch? Or an early dinner . . . I don’t know—Jay told me to stay . . . I just don’t want him to. . . I know you do, but—Well, did you try calling Josh? What did he say? . . . God!” He sounded really annoyed. “You paid him extra to be on call! Is Jay there? Maybe he can do it.”

  Rodrigo squeezed his eyes shut. Finally, he said, “Baby, baby . . . it’s okay! Of course I will! Of course!”

  He slipped his phone into his pocket, tapped some keys on his laptop, closed it up and slid it into its black case.

  “I need to pop over to Haley’s for a little while,” he said without looking at us.

  “Troubles?” Stefano chirped.

  “Nothing major. Just—that stupid AV system. She’s trying to watch television, and she can get the picture but there’s music coming from the speakers. And Josh is supposed to be on call twenty-four/seven, but he’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend.”

  Stefano tsk-tsked. “You’d think he’d arrange for a backup.”

  “He did, but the other guy doesn’t have clearance, and Josh should’ve thought of that.”

  Stefano and I didn’t say anything until Rodrigo’s little green car pulled out of the lot.

  “The AV guy needed clearance?” I said.

  Stefano giggled. “Honestly! You’d think Roddy’s working for the CIA.”

  “Maybe he’s writing a movie about spies,” I suggested.

  “Oh, no!” Stefano settled onto Rodrigo’s vacated couch like a Persian cat. “Roddy only writes coming-out stories. One after another after another, like he’s the first gay man in the universe. If he’d just get a boyfriend, it wouldn’t be so bad. Instead, his life revolves around Crazy Haley.”

  I remembered the paper I signed. “Are we allowed to talk about this?”

  “Of course! We both have clearance, remember? We just can’t go public.” He crossed his legs and put his clasped hands on his knees. “We don’t have long. What do you want to know?”

  My mouth dropped open. Where to begin? “Everything!” He tapped his cheek. “Okay—the recap. You probably know most of this from the Internet.”

  “I don’t get the Internet.”

  I expected the usual expressions of horror. Instead, he said, “I’ve never really understood how to work it, myself. Okay. Let’s start at the very beginning . . .” He sang to the tune from The Sound of Music, and then he spoke quickly.

  “Haley Rush came from one of those square-shaped mountain states. Colorado or Wyoming or . . .”

  “Montana,” I supplied.

  “Montana! Right!” He pointed at me like a game show host. “The official version of how Montana Haley became Hollywood Haley is that she was in some talent show or state fair—or maybe a talent show in a state fair—and some scouts saw her and asked her to come to California.”

  “And the unofficial version?” I asked.

  Stefano tapped his shiny cheek. “It all started with Haley’s mother. She claims she was a beauty queen once, but I’ve seen pictures, and—I don’t think so. Anyhoo, she married young—you can get hitched at, like, twelve in those states. Hubby was much older, just some guy with a couple of hardware stores. Mama Rush had a couple of kids and got all fat, and hubby started running around, and it turned out he didn’t have as much money as she thought he had.

  “When Haley was three or five—I think it was five—her mother noticed she could carry a tune, so, voila! She turned her into her little show pony, mostly for her own ego at first, but then she started making a little money off of her. By the time Haley sang at the state fair—she was eight or nine at that point—Mama was three hundred pounds and desperate. Maybe some guy said Haley should go to Hollywood, maybe not. Most agents won’t even set foot in the Valley. You think they’re going to pop off to a state fair in Montana unless they’ve been invited to Demi and Ashton’s?” He bit his lip. “Or is that Idaho?”

  “Haley told you all this?”

  “Ohhhh, yes. When she talks, she talks a lot. Other days she just mopes. It’s like she’s two different people.”

  “And now three,” I said.

  He giggled. “True. When they got to L.A., Mama and Haley lived in a crappy motel and spent their days going to auditions and modeling agencies. She has a little brother, but they left him back with Daddy. He moved out here once he turned thirteen, which worked out really well for him because it’s much easier to score cocaine in L.A. than it is in Montana. And, of course, Mama and Daddy got divorced somewhere along the way, and Daddy moved to Reno to marry a cocktail waitress. Shockingly, the relationship didn’t last.

  “After they’d been here maybe six months, Haley got cast in a peanut butter commercial, and then there was a laundry detergent commercial. A few others, I think. Her big break came when she was a teenager and she got cast in The Crazy Life of Riley Poole. Remember that one? It ran for two, maybe three, seasons. Haley played the nerd.”

  “Is Haley still close to her mother?”

  “Oh, noooo . . .” He held up a finger to signal “one minute” and disappeared into the back room, returning with a tabloid and a Diet Dr Pepper. He flipped through the magazine until he found the picture he was looking for and handed it to me.

  The headline was printed in enormous letters: HALEY TO MOM: GET OUT!

  There were several photos: Haley tight-lipped in big sunglasses; Haley as a young, smiling girl standing next to a large, brown-haired woman; a thin, blond, middle-aged woman getting into a car.

  “This is the mother? How’d she lose all the weight?” I asked.

  Stefano popped open his soda. “Stomach staple and lipo. Paid for by her salary as Haley’s manager.”

  “Isn’t Jay Haley’s manager?”

  “He is now. They met when Haley was on Riley Poole. Jay was some kind of production slave, and he got tight with Haley, which is kind of weird when you think that she was, like, fifteen and he was, like, twenty-five.”

  “Wait. So Haley and Jay were . . .”

  “Officially, he saw her artistic potential and wanted to help her shine. Unofficially? His career was going nowhere and he saw financial potential. He’s the one who convinced her to move over to the Betwixt Channel, though, so you’ve got to give him some credit.”

  “But was there ever a romance?”

  “Romance! Oh, you are so quaint. She never said anything about it to me, and believe me, I’ve fished. What I do know is that Haley hasn’t talked to either of her parents since she turned eighteen, and Jay hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to mend the family rift.”

  “But what about the boyfriend?” I asked. “Brady Ellis.”

  Stefano licked his lips. “A tasty, tasty morsel. I keep begging Jay to let me do his hair, but I think he’s afraid that I might say something inappropriate. Which I wouldn’t, BTW.”

  “What does Jay have to do with Brady’s hair?”

  “Jay manages Brady, too. He’s got a handful of young clients. Not like Haley—it’s not a round-the-clock hand-holding dealie—but he manages the publicists, gives input on scripts, that sort of thing.”

  “Is Haley still going out with Brady?” If so, maybe I’d get to meet him.

  “Sadly, no. Maybe they went their separate ways. Or maybe he finally figured out that she’s fucking insane.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stefano tapped on his soda can. “She won’t leave the house. She cries for no reason. She’s on about fifteen different pills—all of them prescription, but still. She’s got the emotional maturity of a two-year-old. Shall I go on?”

  “Yes, please!”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I like you, Veronica Zapp!”

  “Did they tell you that was my last name?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I shook my head. “Czaplicki.” He looked baffled, of course.

  “Do you want me to spell it?”

  “I’d rather you d
idn’t.”

  “My maiden name was Foote.” I’d always figured that was almost, but not quite, worse.

  “Veronica Foote.” He spoke the name slowly, trying it out. He took a long, long drink of his Dr Pepper and placed the can on a coaster. “You might want to just stick to Veronica. One word—like Madonna.”

  I’d say I didn’t recognize the woman staring back from the mirror once Stefano had finally finished my hair, but that wasn’t true. I recognized Haley Rush—at least, the air-brushed Haley who graced magazine covers. The blond woman in the mirror looked a hell of a lot better than the Haley Rush I’d seen skulking around in her bathrobe.

  “And just a few finishing touches,” Stefano said, dabbing my face with powders and shimmers and glosses. “You’ll knock ’em dead at—Where are you going after this?”

  “The elementary school. Oh, God. What time is it? I’d better get going.” Rodrigo was back, waiting for me on the couch.

  “Okay, then, lovey,” Stefano said. “I’ll see you back here on Friday.”

  “Friday?”

  “For your extensions.”

  Oh, God.

  The freeway was jammed. There was no way I’d make it in time to get the kids at school. Maybe Nina could drop off the Mott kids and take Ben back to her house till I got there.

  I tried her home number: no answer. I tried her cell: same. I pulled up Deborah Mott’s contact info but couldn’t make myself press the button.

  “I’m late,” I announced into the air. That’s how it felt, anyway; Rodrigo and I had spent almost an hour in the car together without exchanging a single word.

  I pictured Ben standing on the front lawn, alone except for Shaun and Shavonne. I couldn’t let that happen. I scrolled through the contact list on my cell phone. Oh, what the hell.

  “Y’lo!”

  “Hi, Hank, it’s me.”

  “Roni! Hey. What’s up?”

  “I’m on my way back from L.A., and I’m stuck in traffic. There’s no way I can make it to the school in time.”

  “You want me to get Ben?”

  That was easy. My entire body relaxed with relief just as brake lights flashed ahead of us. Rodrigo jerked the Prius to a halt. My seatbelt jerked me back.

  I tried to keep my voice steady. “If you could.”

  “Sure, no problem,” he said. “You need me to get the Mott kids, too?”

  “Please,” I said. “And when you drop them? If you can make sure Deborah’s there. A couple of times last week she was out when we got home.”

  “How about I’ll just hang at your place until you get home, so Big Ben won’t have to go from one house to the other. He does that enough already.”

  “True.” I felt a stab in my chest that I took for guilt until I remembered: Hank broke our family apart, not me.

  “Did you get a Bluetooth?” Hank asked me.

  “Huh?”

  “A handless phone set. Because you’re in your car, aren’t you?” In California, it was illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving.

  “I am,” I said, shooting a glance at Rodrigo. “So I’d better go. Thanks for getting the kids.”

  When I got home, I fully expected to find Hank and Ben sprawled on the sofa, chomping potato chips in front of the TV. I was so grateful for Hank’s help that I wouldn’t have even minded.

  Instead, Ben sat at the table, hunched over a worksheet, nibbling from a bowl of cut apples, while Hank fiddled with my computer.

  “Mommy—your hair!”

  I touched my head. “Oh. That.”

  Hank turned, and his eyes just about flew out of his head. “Oh, my God!”

  “I, um, just thought I’d try out a new look.”

  “You look gorgeous,” Hank said.

  Heat ran through my face and down my neck. “I’m not sure it really suits me.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re a knockout!”

  Hank liked blondes: look at Darcy. If only I’d bleached my hair years ago, maybe I’d still have a family.

  “Thanks for getting the kids.” I was eager to change the subject.

  “Anytime,” he said. “I’m lucky to have such a flexible work schedule.”

  Officially, Hank helped Darcy with her real estate business—sprucing up homes in anticipation of a sale, lining up inspectors and appraisers, stuffing mailboxes with notepads and brochures. Unofficially, I suspected he spent most of his time doing leg crunches in front of ESPN.

  He kept looking at me. “I can’t get over you as a blonde.”

  “It’s just hair,” I snapped, heading for the bathroom.

  When I came out, he was hugging Ben good-bye.

  “Your Internet’s working,” he told me over Ben’s shoulder.

  “Really?”

  “Your modem just needed to be reset. Not a big deal.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You can always call me,” he said. “If something breaks or you need any kind of help or . . . whatever.”

  I nodded. “Thanks,” I said again.

  “See you Wednesday, Big Ben.” Hank gave him a final squeeze. “We’ll go get those rockets for the Cub Scout launch.”

  “Let’s do it now!” Ben pleaded.

  “It’s not my—” Hank stopped himself before he could say “day.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m really busy this afternoon. I have to do some . . . things. But Wednesday. Right after school.” He held up a fist, and he and Ben tapped knuckles.

  I turned the other way. This was their moment, not mine.

  Chapter Twelve

  When we met, I was twenty-one and Hank was thirty-five, and if that sounds like a ridiculous age gap, that’s because it was. I was never one of those girls perpetually in search of a father figure. I have a perfectly nice father married to a perfectly nice mother. They still live in the house where I grew up, in a small town outside of Sacramento. And, yes, they were perfectly appalled when their college daughter announced that she was dating a man halfway between her age and theirs.

  Like so many great romances, Hank’s and mine began in a dark, crowded bar, late one Saturday night when I was feeling restless. In the space of the last month, I had begun my senior year at Cal State Fullerton and ended, once and for all (Really! I meant it this time!) a two-and-a-half year relationship with Shane, the boy-man I had been dating since freshman year. Shane was now a junior, even though he hadn’t taken any time off. He had merely changed his major three times, from education to business to botany. Botany!

  Shane was still living at home with his parents and his two teenaged sisters. His bedroom sported about thirty childhood sports trophies, an extensive video game setup, and a tropical fish tank, which he broke one day while playing basketball in the house. The shattered fish tank, for me, was the final straw. I got to his house maybe an hour after it happened, and he told me the whole story like it was so, so funny: “Kyle stopped by and he was like, ‘Dude, let’s go outside and shoot some hoops.’ And I was all, ‘Dude, can’t you see I’m comfortable?’ And he was all, ‘Sure, fine, whatever—catch!’

  “And he throws the ball at me, and I pass it back, but my aim was kind of off and—shit! I hit the tank and Kyle was like, ‘Slam DUNK!’ It was frickin’ hilarious . . .”

  He left the fish to die on the floor.

  I was so upset I could barely breathe.

  “They’re just fish,” he said, stepping around the puddle.

  “I will never have children with you,” I told him.

  So there I was, a few weeks later, at the Verona Club, standing at a high, sticky table with a couple of girlfriends who had decided that I needed to “get lucky.”

  I did hope to meet someone, it’s true. For years, I’d had my life mapped out: marriage at twenty-four, children at twenty-six and twenty-eight. I’d take a few years off from teaching when the kids were born, maybe go back part-time when they started school. The breakup with Shane threatened to mess it all up, but if I met someone quickly, I could get my life b
ack on track.

  But Susy, Ellen, and I were way too young for this place. We’d picked it because it was one of the few Fullerton bars where we wouldn’t risk running into Shane or one of his buddies.

  I walked over to the bar because it gave me something to do—and also because it was my turn to buy a round. I squeezed between sweaty, cologne-covered bodies and finally managed to catch the bartender’s eye and order one Corona Light, one cosmopolitan, and a margarita (that was for me—no salt, please).

  Once the drinks came, I tucked the beer bottle into my elbow and grasped a glass with each hand.

  The man sitting on the stool next to me—blond, spiky hair, youngish looking (at least for the Verona Club), in a short-sleeved, button-down pale blue shirt—eyed my load and smiled. “Need a hand with those?”

  He had been talking to another guy. They were drinking beer.

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” I said—just as someone bumped me from behind.

  The glasses stayed in my hands. Their contents did not.

  “I am so sorry!” I gasped.

  Mouth hanging open, he stared at his drenched shirt. And then he looked at me. And laughed. “Wow. You got me good.”

  Next to him, his friend howled.

  “I am so sorry,” I said again. “Someone bumped into me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Still chuckling, he reached for a pile of napkins and began dabbing his shirt.

  “I’ll pay the dry cleaning bill,” I offered.

  He waved the offer away. “It can go through the wash. A little Shout, and it’ll be fine.”

  It made a good story: When did you know Hank was The One? When I found out he knew how to do laundry.

  It wasn’t that simple, of course. And the laundry thing didn’t strike me until later. Mostly, I was struck by his maturity, his easygoing manner, his slime-free friendliness.

  “Hank,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Veronica.”

  “I always liked her better than Betty.” His blue eyes crinkled.

  Was he flirting or just being nice? I couldn’t tell.

  When his friend got up—to use the bathroom, he said, though he never came back—I took his stool. The replacement drinks were on the house. Hank had gone to high school with the bartender.