Hancock Park

by Isabel Kaplan

  “It’s just not fair.” Amanda broke a piece off the scone and chewed for a moment, thinking. “My parents only care about what’s best for them, not what’s best for me.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  Something caught Amanda’s attention and she smiled. I swiveled around to see what it was and saw that it was a who.

  “Hey.” Joey Michaels was smiling down at me. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and nodded to Amanda.

  “Hey,” I said, gesturing to an empty chair to my left. “Come sit.” This conversation had been getting too intense—the situation was becoming too real—and I wanted some breathing room.

  Joey and I had been friends since we were little, and through me, Amanda and Joey had become friends as well. It was hard not to like Joey; he was a little goofy and his ears stuck out, but he was also friendly, sincere, and really funny.

  “Rarely do I see you here not in uniform,” Joey commented, taking a seat.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be rocking those khaki skirts in no time,” I joked back. I broke off a piece of the scone and held it in my hand.

  “But I won’t,” Amanda added, frowning.

  Joey shifted uneasily in his chair. “Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry, Amanda. That sucks.” Joey was a Hancock Park kid, too. He went to Whitbread’s “brother” school, Stratfield.

  “I can’t wait for school to start,” he said, rolling his eyes. Which was funny because Joey was like me—he probably was looking forward to school starting. Why was he pretending to dread it? “I heard that Stratfield’s going all out on an environmental campaign this year. They’re creating a fucking compost pile next to the soccer field. I bet that’ll smell great!”

  “Lovely. Oh, and did you hear, they’re rebuilding half of Whitbread!” I added.

  “Guys, do you know how much it sucks hearing you talk about school when I’m not going to be there to experience any of it?” Amanda put her head in her hands. That was the thing with Amanda—she liked to be in charge of setting the tone of the conversation.

  There was a moment of silence. “Sorry,” Joey and I said at the same time.

  “Thanks.”

  Joey stood up. “Listen, I should get going. My mom’s sick, so I thought I’d come pick up her favorite tea latte for her. Bye, Amanda.” Joey leaned in to give her a hug. “Shoot me an e-mail from New York or something. I bet your new school will be great—no construction projects or compost piles, hopefully!” Amanda simply nodded. “And Becky, see you soon.” I stood up so he didn’t have to lean down to hug me, and I wrapped my arms around him. Cocking his head to whisper in my ear, Joey said, “My mom told me about…you know, the divorce. I’m so sorry, Becky. That’s really tough. But if you need anything, I’m always here.”

  As I rested my head against his chest, grateful for the hug, I felt the beginnings of tears in my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered back.

  “Are you okay? That was the longest hug ever,” Amanda said as I sat back down.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “There’s just a lot of crap happening in my life, too.”

  “But at least you’re not moving to New York.”

  I felt a piece of scone get stuck in my throat, and I coughed. “It’s not a competition,” I said, my voice quiet.

  When I drove Amanda back to her house after our coffee trip, there were moving vans in the driveway and along the sidewalk. Boxes were being loaded into the truck, and Amanda’s dad was packing suitcases into the car. I parked next to one of the vans and turned to Amanda. “I guess this is it.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Call me when you get into New York, okay? And you have to keep me updated on everything that happens.”

  “Of course. And you’ll do the same for me, right? I don’t want to be totally out of the Whitbread loop. You’ll have to keep me posted on MUN and, like, what energy drink the Trinity are hooked on this year.”

  The Trinity was our name for our grade’s popular girls. We ridiculed them and envied them at the same time, but we only owned up to the ridicule.

  We laughed and hugged, and Amanda got out of the car and started up the front steps. I waved good-bye as if this were just any other day and drove toward home.

  Shit Lists

  I like to make lists—they help me feel more in control of my life. My lists are always on college-ruled paper and need to have a number of entries that is divisible by three. That night, I sat at my desk and made a Shit List—a list of what parts of my life were awful. I thought that getting it all out on paper would make me feel better, but it didn’t. It just made me feel worse. And overwhelmed.

  Sara Elder was supposed to be back from her vacation, and the last time I saw her, she promised that she’d be checking voice mail. But I still hadn’t received a reply from that emergency phone call two days earlier. A Shit List and my dwindling bottle of Xanax seemed like the best substitute.

  The list was detailed. It wasn’t good enough to just write Parents divorcing, best friend moving away, life sucks. I had to break it down to see what each of these things actually meant. This is what I came up with before I quit:

  Home feels empty.

  Mom works late.

  Dad works later.

  Therapist not returning my phone calls.

  No real friends at school.

  Don’t know if I can keep MUN going w/o Amanda.

  I looked at the pages spread out before me and started to panic. By that time, I’d taken my last Xanax, and it was too late to get my prescription refilled. So to calm myself down, and for a kind of balance I suddenly, desperately needed, I countered the Shit List with a Bright Side List.

  On the bright side: I have all my limbs.

  On the bright side: I’m sort of smart (although sometimes I worry I’m not smart enough).

  On the bright side: School starts next Tuesday.

  I know, that one doesn’t seem like a “bright side,” but I really was looking forward to digging out my khaki skirts from the box I’d hid them in last June, when I’d been beyond eager to be rid of them for three months. In a few weeks, when I was thisclose to burning out because I’d already overcommitted myself and signed up for one too many classes and ended up with no free periods, I’d probably move the school category from the Bright Side List to the Shit List, but right then…right then I just hoped that a brand-new spiral notebook could provide some sort of temporary cure. For me, each fresh one is full of promise—that I’ll be a diligent note taker, that I might write down brilliant thoughts between those college-ruled lines.

  But as I tried to focus on the jolts of excitement this usually sent through me, I came to an unavoidable conclusion: A spiral notebook might not be enough right now. It wouldn’t make my parents decide they were just kidding about that whole divorce thing. It wouldn’t bring Amanda back. And it definitely wouldn’t make me instantly popular at school.

  Family Matters

  The majority of kids at my school have at least one relative in the Industry (aka Hollywood). I suppose my parents aren’t really an exception: Every week on Kathy’s Eye, my mom advises women on what is “in” and “of the moment.” My dad’s an entertainment lawyer. He’s the guy you call if you’re an actor and you want to negotiate a deal for your upcoming movie. Basically, it’s a lot of boring paperwork that adds up to invitations to movie premieres and many late nights spent working.

  The other thing the kids at my school have at least one of? A stepparent. Because the majority of kids at my school also have divorced parents. Joey’s had split up when he was really little, back when I thought divorce was something that could never happen to me.

  Suddenly, it seemed like I was becoming a part of the majority in all the wrong ways.

  The Friday before school started, my mom and I were supposed to go to brunch at Toast on Third Street. I hadn’t really talked to her in days—she’d call and I wouldn’t pick up, she’d come in to say good night and I’d pretend to be asleep. And while part of me want
ed to keep avoiding her, another part of me needed to hear what she had to say. Dad was barely around at all, so it wasn’t hard to avoid him. That morning, when I went down to the kitchen to make my cereal, I ran into him, stumbling in from the adjacent family room, looking as though he hadn’t shaved in days. The texture of the pillows from the family room couch was imprinted on Dad’s cheek. I had already poured milk into my bowl of Cheerios, but I suddenly felt too sick to eat. I left the room with an awkward “Later” and headed back upstairs.

  Mom’s show tapes every Friday afternoon, but she says she always has time for me. I felt bad ignoring her—guilty, even. Although I knew that the divorce wasn’t my fault and that I had every reason to be upset, I still feared that by avoiding everything, I was making it worse. So I asked Mom if we could go to brunch. She said that she could definitely make time and she’d come by for me at eleven; by noon, I still hadn’t heard from her.

  I’d spent the morning rewriting my lists so that each fit on one sheet of paper. At eleven, I’d decided to color code them. By eleven thirty, I had renumbered everything. By noon, I was just pissed and decided to call my mother.

  “Hi, honey,” Mom said when she answered the phone, as if it were any old day, as if she had nowhere in particular to be.

  “Where are you? I thought we were going out to brunch.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” At least she sounded a little remorseful. “I’m so sorry, I got called in to work early.” In the background, I heard a voice asking if my mother might want “an ottoman to go with it.”

  “An ottoman? Where are you?” I asked again.

  She paused for a moment. “I’m furniture shopping. We can’t move into an apartment with no furniture in it, can we?”

  I gulped and pulled at my shirt, running my fingers along the frayed edges. “Apartment?” Had I missed something? No one had ever mentioned anything about us moving out. In trying to ignore the divorce, I’d blinded myself. Obviously my parents wouldn’t want to live together anymore. But although this was obvious, I still was able to avoid acknowledging it.

  “Honey, I’ve found a great place for us. Not for forever, but just for now. It’s at the beach. You and Jack will love it, I think. Pam’s helped me pick out furniture, and we’ll be ready to move in next week. You get your own bathroom, too. No more sharing with Jack.”

  My own bathroom? Is that what she thought mattered most?

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to her—nothing appropriate anyway—so I just mumbled, “See you later,” and snapped my phone shut without waiting for a response.

  My mom was buying furniture for an apartment that I hadn’t even known existed. So typical of her! No wonder Dad was divorcing her.

  A few minutes later, Dad poked his head into my room. He was dressed for work but had apparently forgotten to brush his hair.

  “I’m going to work,” he told me.

  “Now?” Dad was usually out of the house by eight. Sometimes he left even earlier.

  “Um, yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I decided to take a nap before going in.”

  Bullshit. My dad never took naps. What was going on?

  “Anyway,” Dad continued, “could you see what Jack wants for dinner when he wakes up? And take him to Larchmont and get him some lunch, okay? Maybe sushi? He’s having a hard time with this,” my dad said.

  I sat up on my bed. “He’s having a hard time? Yes, of course. I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make sure his life is wonderful—maybe I’ll get him delivery from Spago? What about me, Dad?” My eyes stung, and I stared at the pile of Shit Lists in front of me.

  He didn’t lean down for the usual hug or kiss, just stared at me with a confused look on his face. “You’re a big girl, Becky,” he told me. “I gotta go to work, so…”

  His words trailed off as if he didn’t need to say more, and suddenly everything was clear to me: This was all his fault. If he weren’t always at work or on his way to work or late coming home from work, then none of this would be happening!

  My mind had flip-flopped quickly, too quickly for me to make sense of anything. But right then he was the one standing in front of me, so he was the one I was blaming.

  “I’m so big that I’ll move out for good, just like Mom!” I yelled at him.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, then picked up his briefcase from the floor and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door.

  Blonde Ambition

  If there was one thing I hated, it was not having control. But there I was, just sitting back and watching as my life was changing in front of me, and I had no control over what was happening. So I stopped eating. By Saturday, I hadn’t really eaten in three days. I liked knowing that I was in charge of what I consumed; nobody else could have that power. That empty feeling proved I could take action, and I wanted the feeling to last and spread. Which is why I decided to accompany my mom to Frédéric Fekkai that morning.

  My mom went to Frédéric Fekkai’s Rodeo Drive salon every Saturday to get her hair blown out, and every month or so, she’d have her color touched up. Mom was a natural blonde, but she was actually a pretty dark blonde, according to the pictures I’d seen. I’m probably not the best person to ask about my mom’s natural hair color, because I’ve never actually seen it. My hair ended up a sort of middling brown, and I’d been happy enough with it for all my life so far. I didn’t get my hair done at Frédéric Fekkai. But nobody turned and stared in horror when I walked by, either.

  My mother always told me that I was pretty, but I figured I should take that kind of compliment with a grain of salt. Telling your daughter that she’s pretty must be in some sort of rulebook—the Mothers’ Code of Conduct. Plus, Mom had repeatedly said that I was just the right size for my height, and I knew that wasn’t true. Size 8 was way above normal.

  For L.A., anyway.

  I sat in the passenger seat as my mom drove us to the salon. When we hit a stoplight, Mom turned to me.

  “I’m glad you decided to come. This will be fun.” She’d been doing this false-cheer thing for a couple days, like, “Look, life is great! What divorce?”

  “I hope so.” I was feeling guilty about blaming her for the divorce, but I wasn’t going to admit that to her. Besides, I couldn’t figure out who was actually to blame, my mom or my dad.

  “Sweetheart, I know that you’re mad at me, and you have every reason to be. I just hope you can understand that if I could have shielded you from this pain, I would have. I love you more than anything in the world.”

  I wanted to tell her that I loved her, too, but instead I looked down at my hands. The ride was silent after that, and soon we were pulling into the driveway of the hair salon.

  The Frédéric Fekkai salon is on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Fekkai himself is in the Los Angeles salon only one day a month. Getting a haircut from him costs about six hundred dollars.

  Which is three times what it costs to feed and educate a child in Africa for a year.

  My mom gets her hair colored by Rian and cut by Marcos, and that Saturday, I would, too. I’ve always liked getting my hair done because no matter how I look when I walk in, I know that I’ll look much better when I walk out. I don’t really like being at this salon, though—all the beautiful women with shiny, layered hair and the clean-cut stylists wielding buzzing blow-dryers makes me feel entirely inadequate and disastrously unattractive. Also, I like to wait as long as I can between haircuts because that maximizes the effect of each one. There’s nothing exciting about getting my hair trimmed an eighth of an inch, because I won’t look any different. But if I cut off three inches, I could become an entirely different person in a matter of minutes.

  Mom greeted the two young receptionists who sat at the circular front desk as though they were old friends, and we continued on to the changing room.

  “Two robes, please. Cut and color,” Mom said to the older woman who stood behind a window, shelves of towels and robes behind her. The woman took t
wo thin, chocolate-brown robes down from a rack behind her and handed them to my mom.

  “Here, put this on,” she said, handing me a robe. She took off her sweater and then her shirt and hung them on a wooden hanger.

  “Do I need to take off my…” My voice cut short. I looked down at myself. I was wearing a turquoise tank top and jean shorts. The receptionists were wearing crisp, white button-downs and black pants, and the woman I’d seen perusing the makeup at the counters behind the receptionist desk was wearing head-to-toe Chanel. I hadn’t known that I was supposed to dress up to go to the hair salon. Even my mom, although not in designer attire, looked totally polished.

  She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in days, and smiled. “You can just put the robe on over your clothes.”

  We headed to the salon floor, where scissors clicked and the hum of blow-dryers overpowered everything else. And, of course, there were mirrors everywhere. Further back, we entered a smaller room; the hairstylists there wore cream-colored shirts instead of white ones. This, my mom explained, was the room where color was done. Mom gestured for me to sit down in one of the dark brown leather chairs, but I paused a moment, staring at myself in the mirror, standing behind the chair. Rian, a tall, thin woman with bobbed blonde hair, darted over to us, and I self-consciously tugged the tie on my robe a little tighter. I hate robes like this because they generally make me feel short and stumpy.

  “So nice to meet you,” Rian said, running her hands through my hair. “You’ve got a gorgeous base color. Are you thinking of going lighter? Doing highlights?”

  “Um, thanks,” I said. Base color? Was that a compliment? Or was that like saying this is a good starting place—a good canvas. Was I just a good blank page?

  “Yeah, highlights, I guess. I want something different. Something new.” I looked at my mom.