by Lisa Yee
Hollywood started laughing but had to stop because it hurt.
It’s starting to smell pretty ripe in the Toyota. The air conditioning is busted and we’re all hot and sweaty. Plus, we just throw the garbage in the backseat, which really pisses Ted off because it always lands on him.
After the drugs/swelled-lip incident, we cough up the cash to check into a motel outside of San Antonio. The sign says free Internet access. Too bad none of us has a computer. The bath-room smells musty. Still, it feels great to take a shower and I stay in there until Ted starts banging on the door. “Hurry up, Maybe. We’re hungry!”
As we walk down a dirt road, Ted shuffles his feet and kicks up dust. “Stop that!” I yell. “I just got clean.” When he ignores me, I shove him. He head butts me and I fall down. “Ted, I’m going to kill you!” I shout as I lunge at him.
When Hollywood tries to break up our fight Ted tackles him. Soon they’re wrestling. Hollywood’s so much bigger than Ted, but Ted has speed.
“Stop it, you guys,” I shout. “I’m hungry!”
“Me too,” Ted says, grinning from the headlock Hollywood has him in.
There’s only one waitress at Marie’s Coffee Shop.
“Is Marie here?” Hollywood asks. Only his lip is still swollen, so it sounds like he’s said, “Eth Mar-wee ear?” The waitress stares at us like she’s never seen a white boy with an Afro, a Thai boy with slicked-up hair, and a Goth girl with pink hair.
The restaurant is practically empty except for two elderly men in overalls sitting at the counter. I wonder if they are twins. Neither speaks, instead they just stare straight ahead and chew in unison. And she thinks we’re strange?
I order breakfast even though it’s past dinnertime—eggs over easy, French toast, sausage, and orange juice. Ted asks the waitress about each item on the menu.
“Will the chili give me gas?”
“Do the string beans come from a can?”
“Is the homemade pie homemade?”
In the end he gets two hamburgers with extra pickles and fries. Hollywood makes a big deal about shutting his eyes and pointing at the menu.
While we’re waiting for our food, Ted whips out his cell phone. “Hi Maah! Yeah, I miss you too. How’s Paww? Oh my God! Is he okay? Did the bull get him?” Paww is a rodeo clown. “Good . . . Okay, yeah. Well you scared me! Yeah, she’s here. Wait.” Ted looks at me. “Maah says hi.” I wave to the phone. Ted must talk to his parents five times a day. “Hi Paww, I’m glad you’re okay. I love you too. Okay. Bye.” In the Schneider house they say, “I love you” as often as Chessy said, “Maybelline, you’re an embarrassment.”
Ted’s always happy after he’s talked to his parents. “The first summer I spent away from home, I was eight,” he says, reaching for the ketchup. He douses his French fries and then pours an obscene amount of salt over them. There’s a cracker in the saltshaker. “I was at Thai Buddies sleepover camp and I didn’t get homesick once, but Maah later told me she cried everyday I was gone.”
“My mom started crying on the day I got my scholarship to USC,” Hollywood says. It’s getting easier for me to understand him. He stops filming his dinner and pokes at his liver and onions with his fork. “She’s probably still crying.”
“My mother’s never cried over me,” I recall.
Hollywood eyes my French toast. “Do you want to trade?”
I switch plates. I’m not hungry.
As Ted and Hollywood debate their Top Ten favorite films, I look down at the liver and onions. I hate liver and onions.
“You can’t list Willy Wonka twice!” Hollywood protests.
“You can’t keep naming movies no one’s ever heard of!” Ted says, stabbing Hollywood in the arm with a French fry. “How do I even know if they’re real?”
When we get back to the motel, the three of us stare at the two beds. They are twin-sized.
“I get one because I’m doing all the driving,” Hollywood announces. He takes off his shirt. When I try to avert my eyes, I notice that Hollywood’s more toned than I thought he would be, but really pale. He has some pimples on his chest. “Is it okay if I sleep in my boxers?” Hollywood glances at me. “I didn’t bring pajamas.”
“Fine with me,” Ted answers. He’s already in his astronaut PJs.
“Don’t mind me,” I say.
Ted dives for the other bed.
“Hey! That’s mine,” I protest.
“You can sleep with me,” Ted says, winking and raising his eyebrows in an attempt to look sexy. It only succeeds in making me laugh.
“In your dreams, Teddy boy!” I grab a pillow off of each bed. “I’ll take the floor.” When no one stops me, I throw a blanket down. I don’t bother changing out of my clothes.
I can’t sleep. Both Ted and Hollywood snore.
I turn on the television. Jackpot! Nelson’s Neighborhood is on. The dad is so cool. Whenever he goes on business trips, he always brings home exciting presents for the twins and asks how they’ve been.
I take my father file folder out of my duffel bag and shuffle through the photos. Every mile away from Kissimmee is a mile closer to finding what I’m looking for.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Despite Ted’s incessant begging, we don’t do much sightseeing.
“Look! A house made of soda bottles!”
“A museum of broken fenders!”
“A natural geyser!”
Anytime he sees a billboard for a tourist trap, he wants to stop. His AAA guidebook is filled with colorful Post-it notes, and he’s keeping a log of every meal we eat. “It’s for my autobiography,” he explains earnestly.
Hollywood is in a hurry to start his new life. So am I. Going through Texas is hell. The radio won’t come in and we have to listen to Ted tell us about his Thai culture, and about how his parents support his independence, and about how he’s not really short because he will probably have a growth spurt soon, and about how someday we will all have microchips embedded in us, and about how . . .
“Shut up already,” Hollywood barks as he grips the steering wheel.
I look at Ted in the side mirror. He looks hurt, then angry. We drive in painful silence for the next forty-five miles as Ted raises and lowers the window nonstop. Finally Hollywood asks, “Microchips? Don’t they already put those in dogs in case they get lost?”
Ted perks right up and begins jabbering again. Hollywood looks at me and mouths, “Sorry.”
I smile at him. You can learn a lot about a person on a road trip.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ted is bopping up and down in the backseat like some sort of deranged baby kangaroo. The sign says that Los Angeles is less than one hundred and fifty miles away.
We are so close.
“So where does Carla live?” Hollywood asks. “Is she expecting you tonight?”
I turn around to face Ted. He’s always got everything figured out.
“We thought we’d stay with you for a while,” he informs Hollywood.
“What?” Hollywood squawks. “You can’t stay with me. I’m in the dorms. I have a roommate. What about Carla?”
“There is no Carla,” Ted says. “I made that up so that our parents would let us go to L. A.”
“No Carla?” Hollywood sounds mystified. “No Carla?”
“No Carla,” Ted says, looking pleased with himself. “So we’ll just crash with you until we get our own place.”
“No, no, no.” Hollywood shakes his head. “I can’t have you guys in the dorm. What if we get caught and I get kicked out of school?”
“You won’t get caught. It will be fine,” Ted assures him. “Trust me.”
“Can’t we stay, just for a couple days?” I plead. I put on the sad face I’ve seen Chessy use on her husbands when she wants something. Hollywood looks like he’s starting to waver.
“You wouldn’t want Maybe on the streets, would you?” Ted asks. “An innocent young thing like that is sure to be taken advantage of.”
�
�I’m the one who’s being taken advantage of,” Hollywood mutters.
Ted and I glance at each other. We thought he didn’t know.
For the next hour, Ted talks to his parents on his cell phone, narrating everything he sees. It’s maddening. “Paww, there’s a rusted car. . . . There are five birds on the telephone wire. . . . Maybe looks upset. . . . Maybe, Paww wants to know if you’re upset.”
I’m not upset. I’m ... I don’t know what I am. It’s finally starting to hit me that we’re really going through with this. I start to panic. What will we do when we get to L. A.? Where will we live? Where will we get money? How will I find my father?
We’ve passed Palm Springs. Suddenly we all gasp. Two giant dinosaurs loom in the distance. “Paww!” Ted shouts. “I’ve spotted a brontosaur. . . . No, it’s not an optical illusion. . . . It’s a place called Cabazon. . . . Cab-a-zon . . . Hollywood’s pulling over. Gotta go!”
Hollywood takes out his camera and captures Ted running around the dinosaurs. Then he films me forcing Ted back into the Green Hornet.
We’re on the road again. After a while, the traffic slows. “You’re listening to KCLA, all hits, all the time!” the DJ shouts.
Ted pulls out a map. “Take the 60 to the 10 West, then exit at the 110 toward downtown. From there, go right to Figueroa.”
HOOOOONK!!! Even though we are stuck in traffic, the Green Hornet manages to cut someone off. Hollywood looks shaken. I had no idea he could get any paler than he already is. The woman gives us the finger. “You morons!”
Ted yells back at her, “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” She shakes her head but smiles.
I crane my neck and look out the window. The palm trees seem to go on forever. Painted along the freeway walls are huge murals of kids playing. A billboard for Universal Studios looms over us. Hollywood points to a building in the hills. “That’s the Griffith Park Observatory. ‘Once you’ve been up there, you know you’ve been someplace.’ James Dean, Rebel Without a Cause”
As traffic lurches forward, I see it first. “You guys . . .”
The Hollywood sign! It looks exactly like it does on television.
We all break out cheering.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hollywood drags his battered suitcase into the dorm. One of the wheels is missing so it scrapes along the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice—he’s too busy being thrilled out of his mind.
An Asian girl is sitting behind the reception desk. She’s wearing a tattered T-shirt and straw cowboy hat. “Sawaddee ka” Ted says to her. “Greetings! Are you from Thailand?” Anytime Ted sees someone he thinks might be Thai he tries to bond with them.
The girl looks up from her Psychology Today magazine and yawns. “Uh, no, I’m from San Francisco. Are you here for the Gifted High School Summer Program? Because if you are, you’re in the wrong dorm.”
“Why, thank you!” Ted says. “As a matter of fact, my IQ is so incredibly— “Excuse me, I’m checking in,” Hollywood says, pushing Ted aside.
“Name?” the girl asks.
“Daniel Patrick Jones.”
Ted and I snicker. Hollywood never uses his real name. He pretends not to hear us and focuses on the girl. “That’s a nice hat,” he tells her. “Very stylish.”
Oh God, is he trying to flirt? This is so pathetic. Ted and I make faces at each other.
She touches the brim. “Yeah, my boyfriend gave it to me,” she says, giving Hollywood an I’m-out-of-your-league look. She opens what looks like a recipe box and pulls out an index card. “Daniel, you’re on the Cinema Floor. Here’s your key. Do you need me to show you to your room?”
“I can find it,” Hollywood says, unfazed by the rejection. “I’ve got my entourage with me. My bodyguard,” he motions to Ted. “And my housekeeper.”
“That would be me,” I say, waving.
The girl doesn’t laugh. Instead, she goes back to her magazine. As we head toward the elevator, she calls out, “Daniel?” It takes us a while to realize she’s talking to Hollywood. “I almost forgot. There’s a message from your roommate. He says he will arrive on Friday.”
“Bodyguard?” Ted hisses as we get in the elevator. “Did you not get the memo? I’m with the high-school gifted program.”
Hollywood is too happy to bother with Ted. He’s finally made it to USC.
The room is small. It barely fits two narrow beds, two dressers, and two desks, each facing opposite walls. There is a window that looks over a parking lot. The closets are tiny. Chessy would never survive here.
“This is so great!” Hollywood shouts. At home, he and his five siblings share bunk beds in a trailer. He does a totally dorky dance around the room. I am so glad I didn’t go to the prom with him. It was better for the three of us to hang out at Dairy Queen than to subject the world to Hollywood’s attempt at dancing.
“Should we get our stuff?” Ted asks.
Hollywood strokes an imaginary beard. “Here’s the deal,” he says, picking up his Super 8. “You guys can crash here until Friday when my roommate arrives. Then you have to be out.”
Friday. That gives us three days.
“Deal!” Ted says.
“Maybe? Are you okay with that?” Hollywood asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
“Come on, let’s explore!” Ted cries as he runs down the hall.
The campus is practically empty. There are lots of trees and old brick buildings. Heritage Hall houses nothing but sports awards. A whole building full of big shiny trophies—Chessy would be so jealous. Next up, Doheny Library. It’s massive. I have never seen so many books in my life. I like the smell—sort of sweet and woodsy. They should make a perfume like this. The thick wooden tables and heavy chairs look like they have been here for a hundred years. The stained-glass windows glow. Even the ceiling is beautiful. We are quiet, like we’re in church. I wish Ms. Hodor could see this. I could stay here forever, but Ted keeps nudging me toward the door.
The bright sunlight startles me. “Maybe, over here!”
Hollywood is running around on the grass in front of the library. His arms flail and he lifts his knees up high. Ted runs circles around him, literally. For some inexplicable reason, both start hooting. We might as well wear signs that read, we’re HICKS FROM KISSIMMEE.
When at last the boys are pooped out, we stop in front of a statue of a soldier. Hollywood stops wheezing long enough to take out his camera. “It’s not just any soldier,” he says reverently. “It’s Tommy Trojan.”
“The inventor of the condom?” Ted asks with awe in his voice. “Wow!”
Hollywood films the statue from odd angles. At one point he is lying on the ground shooting up. “Tommy Trojan is a soldier and the symbol of the University of Southern California,” he states, like it’s something we should know.
“Well, this is boring,” Ted announces. “Hey, let’s go on a tour of movie-star homes. Hollywood,” he coos. “You know you want to. . . .”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We keep driving around looking for a cheap parking lot. Apparently, there is no such thing in Los Angeles. The tour bus is idling and ready to go by the time we board. There aren’t many people seated. Just us, a pale family from Germany, and a man wearing an orange jumpsuit.
I take a window seat and Hollywood slides in next to me. “The bus is practically empty,” I point out. “There’s enough room for each of us to have our own row.” When he doesn’t respond, I shout, “Move!”
Hollywood relocates to the seat behind me. Ted’s up front near the driver, peppering him with questions.
“Do the movie stars ever come out and wave at the bus?”
“How do we know Teri Lesesne really lives there?”
“How much do you get paid for doing this?”
“What if you have to go to the bathroom?”
“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
You’d think the bus driver would smack him, but instead he cheerful
ly answers all of Ted’s questions and even offers him a stick of gum.
As the bus rolls though the hills, Hollywood’s busy filming everything, so I just stare out the window and admire the tops of the mansions. They all have walls around them. I wonder what life is like on the other side. Chessy would love this. One time one of her husbands took us to Miami and we drove around the really rich people’s neighborhoods.
“Someday,” Chessy pledged as we passed a giant pink mansion with a security guard posted in front of it, “we’re going to live in a house like that.”
After the tour, the bus driver drops us off on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s not what I expected. It’s a tourist trap. However, if Hollywood is disappointed he hides it well.
At Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, there are an alarming number of adults dressed like Star Wars characters. Three Chew baccas are taking pictures of one another. While Hollywood talks to a middle-aged version of Liesl and Friedrich from The Sound of Music, I think about my father. I wonder if he’s ever been here. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were here now?
Ted whispers, “Welcome home.”
It takes me a moment to get what he means. Then it hits me. Even with my pink hair, white makeup, and black kohl-rimmed eyes, no one is looking at me. In Florida people would stare all the time. Once, when I was at Rite Aid buying a magazine, an old man with an American flag pin in his lapel spit on me. When I complained to the manager, he looked me up and down and then said, “Well, you probably deserved it.”
I turn around and spot a girl with bright orange hair. When she notices me, she winks and sticks her tongue out. It’s pierced. I clamp my mouth shut.
Ted calls me over and we do the obligatory putting-our-hands-in-the-cement-handprints-of-the-movie-stars, something Chessy has always wanted to do.
“If you’re so into movie stars, why don’t you just go to Hollywood?” I once asked.
“The train takes forever, you know that,” she replied, still keeping her eyes on her celebrity tell-all magazine.
