by R. J. Jacobs
“I want to say a few things,” Ken begins, in the tone he uses when giving us one of his pre-event pep talks. “The party tonight didn’t always go smoothly, but I thought we handled everything really, really well. All our preparation showed. I thought we maintained our cool and kept our heads in the game even when the lights went out …” Malik and Andre both chuckle. “Even a momentary blackout didn’t throw us off. So, great job everybody.”
Andre holds onto the door handle like he’s waiting for Ken to finish so he can get to unloading everything and head home. His eyes look tired, suddenly. Malik’s too.
Ken pushes his heavy, black glasses up the bridge of his nose and clears his throat, then looks at each of us. “I also have big news. This is important. I need everyone on the schedule for next Saturday night. About halfway through the party, Owen James came up to me and asked me if we can work an event at their house in Belle Meade, starting at seven PM.”
Ken’s voice cracks from the thrill. He makes a fist and pumps it, eyes closed, like he’s won something.
But my head spins, dizzily, my stomach dropping into freefall. “I can’t,” I blurt out.
I’ve said it too loudly, I realize immediately, stopping myself from covering my mouth with my hand.
All three turn and look at me.
“Unfortunately, it’s not really a question, Jessie. This is a must-do. This would be the biggest event that’s happened to this company. We can’t afford to miss it, even if it’s late notice.” The tiny tattoo on his hand flexes as he grips the steering wheel. His eyes seem to radiate intensity through the shadows.
“I just can’t,” I mumble.
“We can talk about it later.” He answers in a deep, more serious tone of voice. “There’s really no choice on this, I’m sorry to say. It’s an all-hands-on deck moment.”
Malik looks back and forth between Ken and me, his expression tight. Then his lips pull into the kind of frown that says “no big deal” as he raises his palms. “This is a good thing, Jessie. We’ll handle it. It’s okay.”
But this is not okay, and I know I can’t say why. I need to find a way out of going as quickly as I can. Even if Ken said there’s no choice, there is. As much as I would hate to, I know I will quit before going to a party at Owen and Shelly’s house. My temples are damp, and the back of my neck burning hot, like I’ve been standing too close to a fire. There’s simply no way I can go.
I’m almost too upset to listen as Ken explains the way Owen’s offer came about. “The event is for the release of their new album. Apparently, they already had a caterer, but I got the idea that Ms. James can be tough to work with.”
I zone out as he tells more of the story. I watch as Andre wipes his forehead with a cocktail napkin, then folds it in half and wipes again, letting out a sigh.
Once Ken’s finished, we unload the van. I keep quiet, hurrying on each trip to the kitchen and back. I grit my teeth when Malik starts to whistle a tune that normally makes me smile.
On my last trip, I nearly walk straight into Ken, who holds up his hand. I look at my shoes. The pavement is dewy, like it’s sweating. “Jessie,” he says. “Listen, this will be fine. Don’t I always look out for you? You did so well tonight. You can do this.”
He’s thinking this is about me being shy, I suppose. I start thinking of an excuse, but I’m always available, and Ken knows it. If I make up a lie, it will have to be believable, and I’ll have to keep it up forever.
One lie can lead to a thousand more.
For a second, I wonder if Ken knows about my following the tour, my arrest. He didn’t seem to earlier when he handed me the nondisclosure form. But just like now, his eyes were calm and satisfied, and my head tells me he couldn’t have—if he knew, he would have shown it before now.
But I wonder sometimes, am I reading him right?
My head spins as I drive home.
I lock myself in my apartment and try not to think.
* * *
Later that night I stare at my ceiling instead of sleeping. How could I? I sit up in bed and force myself to take deep breaths. I’ve already been more than stupid. I know this. Going to the Petersons turned out to be a very bad idea. Going to another party at Owen and Shelly’s house would be completely insane.
Shadows of branches shift across my ceiling as I try to put together the Shelly I’ve seen on stage and the person I saw tonight. I wonder: is that really how she’s been all along? I picture the way Owen acted in front of everyone, and how that changed when he and Shelly were alone. He sounded embarrassed when he talked over her, steering the conversation.
I think about Finch James. She was like me in the way that she didn’t have her real parents. But I went to state care, and she went to live with the most successful country artists in the world. I wonder if she was surprised when she found out where she would go—twelve years old, being told she was going to live with stars.
And then she was famous too. Just like that.
I guess I do sleep some eventually, because I dream about a story I read once about a man who made wings from wax. He wants to fly to the sun, but when he gets too close, the sun’s heat melts his wings and he falls to earth like a stone. I dream that I am him, falling, my heart pounding inside my chest, my arms failing as they try to flap. As the ground rushes toward me, I wake up, screaming.
* * *
On Wednesday, I stand in the catering kitchen sorting through recipes for events for the next few weeks while Ken paces back and forth between his office and the back door, rubbing the back of his neck.
I consider a dozen possibilities about what I will tell Ken to avoid working the Jameses’ party. I need my job—and Ken is so good to me. I know “calling out” is something people talk about doing to skip work. If Jessica hadn’t quit a month earlier, prep would still be all I do. Ken knows I feel awkward around crowds of people, I just don’t want him to notice I’m especially uncomfortable around this event.
Thank God I still haven’t heard anything about Shelly having recognized me at the Petersons’ party. At least in that case, if I am found out I can deny knowing they would be there—not even Ken knew for sure. But if I’m seen at Owen and Shelly’s, there will be no explaining it. There is no mistaking who lives in their house, and my wearing a uniform would even make my presence look even sneakier.
Ken has gotten a haircut and his shirt looks as though he pressed it. Each time I hear the thump of his shoes as he passes, I expect him to say something.
Finally, he asks me, “You’re coming with us this afternoon, right?”
“Where?” I ask, though part of me already knows. Ken has called Andre and Malik in too. Andre opens the side door as if on cue.
“Owen and Shelly James’s, of course. Ms. James is going to show us everything we need to know for Saturday’s party.”
I grind my teeth as I twist the cord to my headphones. “You’re doing it for sure? Catering their party?”
“Absolutely.” He whistles, then draws his eyebrows together like he’s confused by my asking. He sniffs the way he does when he’s nervous. “Were you thinking I wouldn’t take it because of the short notice?”
I nod, and my stomach clenches up.
“I’ll absolutely scramble to do this one. Listen, you don’t have to go today. I just thought maybe you’d want to see their house and all. Get familiar. Plus, you know, it’s the home of a famous couple. Fun to see …”
If you only knew, I think.
“There’s too much to do here,” I say. “I saw the prep list and I figured I would get started on it this afternoon.” I close my hand around my earbud, from which a tinny song rises.
Ken shrugs as if to say good point, just as Malik steps forward.
“You’re not going? How can you not want to see that crib?” he asks. His question sounds innocent enough. Malik touches the screen of his phone, sets it on the table, and turns it to show me a picture: the Jameses’ gray and beige mansion—the size of a castle, but
newer, designed to look modern.
I look at the photo and nod, trying not to show my interest. Even though I’ve seen the same photo hundreds of times, it is so regal-looking that each time I do, I always feel like music should start playing.
They both lean toward the photo.
“Backs up to Warner Park,” Ken notes, pointing at the tree line around the rear and side of the house. Warner Park is the nicest, biggest park in town—almost two thousand acres. It’s where rich and beautiful people go to be in nature.
“Nice,” I say, quietly.
Andre walks in behind Ken, nods at me. “Sup, Jessie? Sup, guys?”
Ken seems to consider Andre’s clothes, then glances at his watch. “We’ve gotta get going. You guys ready?”
Andre smiles. “We’re not even supposed to be there for forty minutes. Somebody’s excited, I think.”
Ken shrugs.
Andre asks, “Jessie, you ain’t coming? You’re going to want to see this, I promise.”
Because: who wouldn’t want a tour of Owen and Shelly James’s mansion? Who wouldn’t want to meet Shelly James?
Me.
I shake my head and turn my attention back to the recipe cards, writing down a note about some ingredients that Ken needs to pick up. I know they can sense I’m not comfortable going, and I pray that Ken thinks of it as no different than my unease with any other event.
“You guys smell like weed.” Ken frowns like he doesn’t approve even though Andre and Malik know he doesn’t care.
“Jessie got us high,” Andre says, winking.
My head snaps around.
“Stop,” Malik says. “Don’t let him bother you, Jessie.”
“Aww, Jessie knows I’m playing.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my heart is beating like a rabbit’s. I haven’t slept more than a few hours a night since I learned about Owen’s offer. I’m in no state to take a joke.
“Just don’t fall into the pool, or like, talk. At all, guys,” Ken says to them both. He and I go over my instructions for what I can prep while they’re gone, then he practically skips out the back door.
“Later, Jessie,” Malik calls. He waves to me, then gently pulls the door closed behind him. A few seconds later I hear the rumble of the van starting.
It makes sense that Owen and Shelly are throwing the party as a way of generating some buzz for their new record. I lean against the counter, listening to the refrigerator hum, then pace around, trying to stay out of my head. I picture the others making their way over to the Jameses’ house and wonder if Ken will take the same route to the house that I have before. I imagine the van driving through a neighborhood even nicer than the Petersons’—where the houses really are mansions with neat-cornered hedges a dozen feet tall and storybook chimney tops, and stone walkways, and third stories.
I can picture just where Ken will turn down their side street, and where he will stop and look up their steep driveway. He will check his phone for a security code, punch numbers into a keypad, and a gate will slowly swing open. I’ve wondered before about that combination while watching delivery trucks pass in and out of their driveway—but of course I would never have thought to try to actually go in.
I shake my head to clear the images away, slip on an apron, and decide to start on the mirepoix. I figure it won’t hurt to contribute to the event, even if there’s no way I’ll actually work on it, and practically whatever Ken and Shelly decide on, this type of prep can happen days in advance—Ken uses mirepoix as a base for nearly every party he caters. As usual, I get lost in the rhythmic cutting—the onions gently give way beneath the knife. I turn them and chop, turn them and chop, making little piles on the edge of my cutting board. I put more of my weight into the celery, having to press down faster, harder, for the cut that I want. I pile the pieces in separate stacks, slipping one tiny piece into my mouth. I skin two dozen carrots, then chop them up too.
I nearly achieve a state of calm.
A few hours pass before I hear the tired cry of the van’s brakes. My pulse speeds up again, but I pretend to shuffle the recipe cards. The back door opens and Malik and Andre burst in, laughing.
“What’s happening, Jes-say?”
“You missed out,” Malik shrugs like he’s truly sorry I didn’t come along.
I set the knife down and wipe my hands on the apron. “What was it like?” I ask, hoping they can’t see my pulse throbbing in my neck.
“What was it like? I’ll tell you what it was like,” Andre cracks up. “It’s like that lady’s never thrown a party before, for starters.” He looks out the door, where Ken is pacing up and down, his phone to his ear.
“There was a lot of waiting around outside, trying to stay out of the hot sun,” Malik says, through a calm smile.
Andre makes a motorboat noise with his lips that means I don’t know. “The only reason we were there is because Shelly James fired the last, like, three caterers. She may be crazy for real, but Ken wants the gig, so we stayed on our best behavior.”
The word “crazy” hits me, but I don’t let my face show it. I want too badly to hear what they have to say.
Andre says, “Honestly, the whole trip over there was a waste of our time. Soon as we get there, an old dude assistant came rushing out to meet us.”
“The manager,” Malik clarifies.
Robert Holloway, I think, picturing his red hair and goatee.
“He looks the three of us over and asks if everyone in the company had come along. Ken explained you were here working. The manager told us only Ken could go inside, at least at first. Ken said he would try to introduce us before we left.”
“Not Ken’s fault,” Malik adds.
“Still,” Andre says, clearly annoyed. “The manager dude takes a call as we stand there, so we sit on the hill in the backyard to wait in the shade, and Jessie, it’s like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Twenty feet of perfect grass before the woods start. Leaves floating down around us. Heaven.” He puts his hands together and wiggles his fingers like a falling leaf. “Honestly, it was so nice, I nearly forgot we weren’t allowed inside.”
I know just the place he’s describing. I nearly got there myself once, but was never able to get so close to the house. I can almost smell the early summer woods, the sharpness of pine.
Andre says, “The house’s back walls were glass. Anyone could see right inside—but since it only faces the park, I guess maybe that’s okay. Just animals and trees.”
If I had been there, me, looking into their house …
“Except we can see inside. Right? And guess what we see?”
Malik hides his mouth with his hand as he looks out the window. He’s blushing, I notice.
“We see Shelly. Upstairs. Doesn’t know Ken is there yet, I guess. Walks past a huge sofa, into a bedroom, and holds out an old flip phone as she unbuttons her shirt halfway down her chest.”
“Stop,” Malik says.
“Truth. She was taking a selfie!”
I swallow, hard. I feel like walking away, but I’m afraid it would look odd.
“Jessie doesn’t want to hear this, man,” Malik mumbles.
“Then she goes downstairs and shows Ken around, all in a hurry, waving a wineglass around while she walks, pointing like,” he makes a high voice like a woman’s, but with a sort-of British accent. “I’d like the main buffet over here, with a little table in this corner for silverware beside it.” (Andre throws his hands in the air and starts slow dancing.) “But Ken don’t care. He thinks he might get some from Shelly James. She had on these huge sunglasses.” (He makes his fingers into circles and raises them to his face to show the size.) “And she walked around in these little white shorts while Kenny pretended to write down what she was saying.”
I look at the back door, wondering if Ken is in earshot.
“Ken’s in love. But that’s okay, I guess. Everybody’s in love with Shelly James. I think I’m in love with Shelly James. Half of Nashville thinks they have a shot.
I guess Owen ain’t taking care of her anymore.”
“Nah, Shelly’s married,” Malik says, and Andre lets out a laugh that seems to rattle the windows.
I hate to admit it to myself, but he’s right. The word for behaving like you’re attracted to someone … Shelly James is flirtatious. Sometimes when she talks with men, she reaches out her red fingernails and touches their forearms or their cheeks. She gives quick glances while walking off stage, and during interviews, and with certain fans, and with her security guards. And I’ve noticed the looks men give her back—longer, like they’re breathing her in.
I always wanted Shelly not to look at men like that, and also wanted Owen not to know that she had. I wanted to have misunderstood all of that, but always knew I didn’t.
“No Owen James though. I guess he was at work.”
“In the studio.”
Andre shrugs. “Maybe she’s a flirt because Owen works too much.”
I think of interviews when Owen has said that he sometimes turns out the studio lights and sleeps there.
“Man loves to work,” Malik agrees.
“He didn’t get that house by doing nothin’. So, check this out,” Andre says. “Right as Ken is taking the tour, the girl, the teenager, appears in the kitchen, saying something to the manager, Robert.”
Finch.
“Then she storms out the back door, right toward us. ‘You two are with the catering company?’ she asks, her cheeks all red, her hands in fists on her hips. And we’re like … uh, yeah? And she raises her voice and says, ‘I sure as hell hope you weren’t taking any pictures with your phones’ and points up.”
“We weren’t,” Malik assures me. “And we told her we weren’t.”
“But she climbs up on the hill, right beside us, and squints up at the house to see what kind of view we have of the upstairs. Malik asks her if everything is okay.”
Malik rubs the back of his neck. “She was pretty worked up. I guess she thought we were watching the upstairs. I don’t know if she knew what we saw or what, but I guess she saw our reactions.”
“It was kind of crazy,” Andre says. “You know, seeing Shelly James taking a half-naked selfie.”
