by Lisa Yee
I stare at the number on the U-No bar wrapper. I pick up the phone and call again. This time a recording comes on. It’s a man’s voice. “You’ve reached Gary Germain Productions. Leave a message at the beep.”
“Hi, this might sound weird,” I say in a rush. “But did you once know someone named Chessy Chestnut from Kissimmee, Florida? Or maybe you know someone who did know her? My name is Maybelline and I’ve got some important news for Gunnar. I think he may be my father. Please call me back at (407) 555-7132.”
I hang up and dial another number. It rings several times. “Hello?” Hi, its me.
“Maybe, what time is it?”
I glance at the clock. Oh. “Urn, it’s six-thirty a.m.”
“This better be good.”
“Ted, I just wanted to tell you that I left a message at that man’s number. Maybe he knows Gunnar and that’s why he called. I left your number, so if he calls, I want you to set up a meeting for us.”
“It’s six-thirty a.m.?”
“Ted, I know and I’m sorry. But promise me you’ll set up a meeting for us, okay? I can’t give him Sammy’s number. I don’t want Sammy knowing what I’m up to.”
“It’s six-thirty a.m.!”
The phone goes dead. I hope Ted paid attention to what I was saying.
I have trouble going back to sleep, so I wander upstairs. Sammy is already up and reading the paper. He’s a morning person. Willow sleeps until noon.
“Good morning, Maybe. Jess’s photos came out great.” Sammy doesn’t seem fazed that I am up so early.
The proofs are spread all over the kitchen counter. Sammy is right—they do look terrific. I pause at a photo of a pretty girl laughing. Is that me? It doesn’t look like me. She’s barefaced and tanned. She looks happy.
“Sammy, these are amazing.” He smiles. “I’m going to get the food shots mounted and laminated. That way Jess can put them up on the truck.”
Sammy chuckles. “You’re like your mom, Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your ideas, they’re great. Your mother has a head for business too. Remember all those ads she ran and how she insisted . . .”
“ ‘If you want them to take notice, take out an ad,’” we say in unison.
Then it hits me. It wasn’t my idea to take out an ad in Variety. It was my mother’s.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jess is Hollywood’s date tonight and has talked of nothing else all day.
“Danny is so amazing.”
“Danny is so talented.”
“Danny is so smart.”
Danny is getting on my nerves. I’m glad when work is over. There aren’t many places you can hide in a taco truck.
When I get home, Willow is in her silver dress, strutting around with a plate on her head and an egg on the plate, and still she looks drop-dead gorgeous. Sammy looks nice too. He’s wearing a suit and it reminds me of when he got married to my mother the second time.
“Hurry up, Maybe,” Sammy says as he fixes his tie. “We don’t want to be late!”
I shower and change into the outfit Willow and I picked out. She helps me with my makeup and hair, then stands back and looks me over. I return her smile.
There’s not a lot of room in the BMW, so I’m squished in the backseat. I would love to put the top down, but Willow doesn’t want the wind to mess up her hair. She’s done it up so it looks like there are little cinnamon buns stuck all over her head.
Even though we get to the theater early, the parking lot is crowded. A lot of the cars look expensive. I spot the Green Hornet with the tape on the left headlight and the photo of James Dean stapled to the dashboard. I don’t see a white Rolls-Royce.
As soon as we walk into the building I spot Hollywood pacing in the lobby. He lights up and gives me a huge hug. I feel myself turning red when I see Jess standing behind Hollywood. As she steps in front of him I gasp. Jess is wearing a short red dress. She’s got heels on. Her hair is curled and she’s wearing lipstick. Jess looks beautiful.
“Excuse us, Jessica.” Hollywood leaves Jess with Sammy and Willow and pulls me aside. He is wearing his sports jacket and he’s done something to his hair. He actually looks good and smells good too. What’s happening to everyone?
“Can you believe this?” Hollywood whispers. “Did you see the marquee? My name was up there! The head of the USC cinema department is here. My screenwriting professor is here. You’re here!”
“This is so great, Hollywood. You deserve everything that’s coming your way tonight.” Just seeing how happy he is makes me want to cry. He’s come so far from Kissimmee, where kids called him Holly weird.
“Maybe, I can only tell this to you, but if I do ever make it big, do you know what I’m going to do first?” I shake my head. “I’m going to buy my mom a big house. No more trailer park for her!”
My eyes fill with tears. “It’s going to happen someday, Hollywood. I just know it.”
He hugs me and whispers, “This is our night, Maybe. Of all the people in the world, you’re the one I want to share it with.”
Uh-oh. He’s starting that again, and with Jess standing just a few feet away. “Slow down, cowboy,” I tell him, breaking away from his embrace. “It isn’t our night, it’s all yours.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, choking up. “I hope you like my film.”
“Of course I’m going to like it, Hollywood. I trust you. I know that whatever you do is going to be great.”
He smiles and whispers, “You’re my inspiration.”
I allow myself a smile. Even though I don’t want him to get the wrong impression about our relationship, it’s nice to be someone’s inspiration.
A booming voice interrupts us. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Award-Winning Documentary Director!”
An obscenely large bouquet of flowers lumbers toward us. Behind it is Ted. He hands them to Hollywood. Rats. I should have brought something to give to him. Hollywood takes out a rose and presents it to Jess. She lifts it to her nose and smiles shyly. Then he hands me the rest of the flowers.
“For you,” he says, winking.
I shove them back at him. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I had Ted pick these up for me,” he says, looking hurt. “Don’t you like them?”
Before I can say anything, the doors open into the theater and the crowd sweeps us inside. “Come on,” Ted shouts. “Make way, make way,” he cries as he passes out business cards. “We’re with the winner here!”
We take our seats and I shift the flowers in my arms. The bouquet is too big to put on the floor. Some old-fart director gets up and gives a long-winded speech proclaiming, “The future of documentaries is in the room with us tonight.” I sneak a glance at Hollywood. He’s sitting ramrod straight as he listens, mesmerized by the old guy’s blabbering.
Ted leans over and whispers, “He called. He’s going to meet you here after the screening.”
“Who?”
“That man who called about the ad.”
“He’s here?” I squawk.
Just then the lights dim and the curtains part.
“Quiet!” someone yells.
I can barely breathe. There are so many questions I want to ask Ted, but every time I open my mouth someone shushes me.
Each film is about fifteen minutes long. I’m sure they’re good, but I’m having trouble focusing. I may find out about my father tonight. I am so close. What if that man’s waiting in the lobby right now? What if he’s sitting in the audience? What if he’s my father? At the very least, he must be somehow connected to my father. I look around, but it’s impossible to see anything. I try to breathe normally but end up hyperventilating. Ted keeps nudging me. “Knock it off,” he whispers.
From what I can tell, the film that’s on-screen is about a one-armed baton twirler. When she finds out she gets to march in the Rose Parade, several people in the audience begin to sob, including Ted.
Hurry up and be o
ver.
Hurry up! The lights go back on and the old fart appears again. Ted yanks me back into my seat. I can’t sit still.
“Tonight’s grand prize for best student documentary was not a hard decision. Even though the competition was fierce, this young man’s film grabbed the judges and wouldn’t let go. He is someone whose name you should commit to memory. After the film, our winning director, Daniel Jones, will come up to say a few words. But now, sit back and enjoy the debut of a stunning new talent.”
There is applause as the theater goes dark. I am so excited I can barely breathe. Not only is this Hollywood’s big night, but my search is finally paying off. Ted and I hold hands. “Pretty soon, Maybe,” he whispers.
On the huge screen, a bus drives up and the wheels grind to a stop. The door opens. Kids’ feet flood the screen as they rush to class, chatting, yelling, laughing. The title comes up: Absolutely Maybe.
Suddenly, the buses drive away and we see a lone figure walking toward school. Ted squeezes my hand hard.
It’s me! It’s me?
What am I doing there? The bell rings and the on-screen me doesn’t even make any effort to hurry. If anything I slow down. The voice-over begins: “For Maybelline, also known as Maybe, school is just one more battle she must endure to get on with her life . . .”
Ted and I turn to each other. Both our jaws drop. Slowly we face the screen.
Hollywood shows me after I was beat up by Chessy’s Charmers.
He shows me running last around the track in P. E.
He shows me being made fun of and laughed at.
He shows me crying after a fight with Chessy. “I don’t know,” the camera catches me confiding to Ted. “I sometimes wonder if it would have been better if I’d never been born.”
It gets worse. Hollywood has one part where he shows a series of shots of me with different hair colors and messy haircuts. The voice-over says, “Even her hair doesn’t know what it wants to be.”
I feel like throwing up. I struggle to stand, but the flowers get in the way, so I hurl them across the dark auditorium. Someone yells, “Hey!”
“Shove it!” I yell as I make my way down the row, stepping on feet as I go. I race through the lobby, then out the front doors. When I get outside, I gasp for air, taking big gulps, like I’m drowning. Then I run and run, pushing people out of my way. I don’t know where I am going. I don’t know where I am. I’m lost. I’m lost. I’m lost, but I keep running.
I finally stop on Rodeo Drive. Everything looks bright and shiny, even the people. They are milling about, window-shopping, laughing, talking, oblivious that my miserable pathetic life is being splashed across the big screen at this very moment. What if my father was sitting in the audience? What if he saw what a loser I am? He’ll never want to meet me now. This whole trip has been for nothing. My whole life has been nothing.
I hate Hollywood. If only he were here now, I’d show him how I feel about his stupid documentary. I spot a tall potted palm tree and whack it. It doesn’t hit back. It doesn’t even move. So I begin to kick it and beat it with my fists. Someone is screaming and won’t stop. A couple of policemen grab me. The screaming continues.
“Calm down, calm down,” one of the cops says.
“Is she on drugs?” the other one asks. “Should I call for backup?”
“No, I think she’s just flipped out.”
“Leave me alone!” I realize the screaming has been coming from me. I break loose and attack the palm tree all over again.
The officers stand back and watch. The first one says, “Let us know when you’re through destroying public property.”
I kick the tree. I hit it. I push it. When I have nothing left, I slide down and sit at the base of the pot. A crowd has gathered. A couple of tourists take photos.
“What are you staring at?” I snap.
“How old are you?” the bigger cop asks. He looks like a movie star. When I don’t answer, he repeats his question.
The other one, who is shorter and beefier, says, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours. We’ll need to see some ID.”
I stare at the sidewalk. The beefy officer sighs. “Okay, miss. You want to do this the hard way, then. Please stand. I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
According to the poster on the wall, the mission of the Beverly Hills Police Department is to “provide superior law enforcement service, while making our community the safest place for all people to live, work, and visit.”
I read it as I wait to get fingerprinted or whatever they do before they send me to prison to rot and die. On the booking sheet or whatever it’s called, where it says “hair color,” the cop had to write “green.” The matronly-looking lady in front of me was arrested for DUI. She is still weaving as she grips the counter. I watch her pearl necklace sway back and forth, back and forth.
“Maybe?”
I turn around. It’s Sammy. I don’t know whether to cry and be angry, or cry and be happy, or cry and be relieved. So I just cry.
He gets on his cell phone. “I’ve got her, she’s fine.” Then he hugs me. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Sammy asks the beefy officer, “What did she do?”
“She assaulted a potted plant,” he says, trying not to crack up. “Do you know this young lady?”
“She’s my daughter.” The cop’s eyes go from him to me. “My stepdaughter.”
“Okay, sir, I’m going to release her into your custody. Just make sure she gets some anger management therapy, or takes yoga, or something.”
Sammy keeps a firm hand on my shoulder as he leads me toward the door. Once we’re outside, he makes another call. “We’re at the police station. Yeah. She’s fine. Okay.”
Willow is leaning against the BMW. She straightens up when she sees me. “Here,” she says. “I gathered some of the flowers you dropped.”
I didn’t drop them, I threw them, but I just say, “Thanks, Willow.”
“You really had us worried,” Sammy says as he makes a slow left turn out of the police-department parking lot. “Want to talk about what happened?”
“No.”
“Okay. Maybe later.”
“Do you mind if we drive with the top down?” I ask. Sammy looks at Willow. She nods. He presses a button and the roof disappears.
Sammy plays a piece of classical music to mask our silence. Willow’s cinnamon buns are coming loose. Finally, she lets them all out and her hair whips in the air. A sliver of moon slices through the water. My mind replays the scene of Chessy saying, “She’s just the light of my life. A girl like her makes me feel proud of who I am—what? Who? Maybelline? No, no, no.” My mother laughs. “I thought you were asking about Camilla, my latest pageant winner.”
There are two cars parked in front of Sammy’s house, a white Rolls-Royce and the Green Hornet. I don’t want to go inside, but Sammy and Willow each take one of my arms. I am too tired to fight.
Hollywood and Ted are huddled at the dining-room table. Jess is on the patio. Sammy and Willow block the doorway. There is nowhere I can run.
“Maybe, I can explain,” Hollywood says. He looks like he’s in severe pain. “I thought you knew. We discussed this. That night when I tried to tell you about the documentary, you said you already knew and that no matter what we’d always be friends.” His voice cracks. “You didn’t even wait to see the end of the film.”
“I saw all I needed to see,” I say flatly.
“But you only saw the beginning— “I saw enough! I saw that you just used me all this time for your stupid film. Did you even consider how I might feel being up there? Oh, but wait. ‘Director Daniel Jones, we expect great things from you.’ So if you need to abuse your friends to get ahead, you just do whatever you need to do and don’t worry about me, your pathetic slacker pal from Kissimmee.”
“Maybe,” he pleads, “I never would have done this if I thought it would hurt you.”
I look into Holl
ywood’s eyes. They are welling up with tears. One runs down his cheek, but he doesn’t bother to brush it away. There is a knot in my throat. I open my mouth to say something, but instead I take a deep breath. He looks hopeful.
I sigh and shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Then I gather all my strength and punch Hollywood in the face.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Not even her hair knows what it wants to be” keeps echoing in my head.
Slowly, I pick up the scissors and raise them high. Tufts of green hair float down and fill the sink as I cut and cut and cut. The more I cut, the worse I look. But I don’t care. It’s not like I’m entering a beauty pageant anytime soon.
Willow is devouring another taco. She looks good with the weight she’s put on. “You shouldn’t have hacked off your hair,” Willow says, shaking her head. “It was sorry enough the way it was.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration.”
“It looks like a really bad lawn,” Willow tells me as she scrutinizes my head. “There’s still some green poking through, but there are big empty patches like dirt, and then over there— “I get it, okay? Can you please shut up?”
Willow huffs and unwraps another taco. “You should watch Hollywood’s film,” she says as she licks her fingers. “I liked it.”
“I don’t want to watch it, or talk about it, or even think about it, okay?”
“Suit yourself.” Willow turns her attention to her taco and smothers it with salsa.
I haven’t gone to work for four days. I can’t bring myself to face Jess. She’s seen the documentary. She must know how worthless I am. Still, Jess delivers tacos every day on her way home. She just leaves the bag by the door.
Hollywood calls, but I just hang up. I don’t bother opening his e-mails either. I talk to Ted twelve times a day on the phone, but I don’t say anything, and I’m not sure if he even notices. He just blabs about Miss de la Tour, and his parents, and the price of homemade pasta. This morning he left a DVD of Hollywood’s film in the mailbox, along with a teddy bear and a box of chocolates. They were all melted, but that didn’t stop Willow from eating them.
