Click.
Clack.
“Sorry,” said Vi.
As the week wore on, a few more kids said something to Cherry about her web celebrity. Commenting online was one thing; saying something in real life apparently required a grace period of seventy-two hours. Cherry ignored the new Facebook friend requests, many of which turned out to be reporters and bloggers looking for inside info. On Wednesday an envelope bearing Paramount’s blue insignia arrived for Cherry. Inside was the title and paperwork to Cherry’s new car, along with a note written on soft, feathery stationery in Ardelia’s immaculate hand:
For C —
Hope you’re treating her well. I know you will.
— A
By Thursday the fervor over Cherry’s celebrity had died down, and then Tina Needle, a rock star everyone expected to die of an overdose, was hit by a bus on the way home from the organic market, and people stopped mentioning the Cherrdelia story entirely.
Things weren’t mentioned at home, either. Pop didn’t bring up the marriage, and neither did Cherry. She and Stew held a few late-night conferences in Stew’s room, Cherry calling Pop controlling and vicarious — a word she’d picked up from TV — and Stew getting stoned and somehow always guiding the conversation back to a favorite song lyric or the universe or the unconscious.
In the evenings she saw Lucas. Watching movies, going for long drives, and hanging out at the park hadn’t changed, a fact Cherry needed to verify constantly. She was nervous that “engagement” would somehow alter their relationship. She didn’t want Lucas to start acting “husbandly” any more than she wanted to be his “little woman.” She wanted them to go on being best friends exactly as before. An engagement was a promise that nothing would change and no one would ever leave. She’d hoped it would ensure her present happiness would last forever. Instead, it was all about planning for the future and the least happy topic of all: money.
“I have some savings,” Lucas said Wednesday evening. They were lying on their backs in the gazebo in Aubrey Park. It was sunset, but some little kids were still making the miniature merry-go-round go ’round. “Maybe enough for first month’s rent on an apartment.”
“I mean, we can’t live at home,” Cherry said. “Right?”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
She closed her eyes, imagining that the conical roof of the gazebo was focusing her thoughts and shooting them into space. This will all be all right. This will all be all right. This will all be all right.
As an alternative to thinking and planning and worrying, she and Lucas made out. Like, a lot. More than usual. A car meant mobile privacy. The Spider’s hard leather seats were inferior to the Gremlin’s spacious, cushiony rear, which was the only thing the old girl had over her prettier little sister. Cherry hadn’t planned to save herself for marriage, but since they’d be tying the knot so soon, wasn’t it better to wait and make it Super Special? In the meantime they were trying some new stuff, exploring new territory, at her pace and her insistence. Lucas was affectionate, but Cherry discovered she preferred to be the one in the driver’s seat. She was less comfortable when the focus was on her body. She didn’t like being the center of attention. She was much better as caretaker, making sure a good time was had.
He offered to go down on her more than once.
“Verboten,” she said Thursday after her German quiz. They were parked in a secluded corner of the Aubrey High lot, behind the outbuildings.
“But I want to,” he said. “Believe me, it’s hot. I’m into it.”
“No. It’s weird and it’s gross.”
“Would it be gross to go down on me?”
From anyone else, that would have sounded like a request. But her boy was more concerned with her comfort than his own pleasure.
Cherry couldn’t keep the smirk off her face.
“No,” she said, letting the word linger in the corner of her mouth. “And maybe that’s something I can give you for your birthday.”
“What about your birthday?”
“Ice-cream cake,” she said, kissing his neck. “And you, you, you.”
Fridays and Saturdays Lucas was a late-shift busboy at Willie’s family restaurant, so weekend nights were Vi territory. The girls had barely seen each other since news of the engagement. Vi answered her phone with, “Who is this? The name Cherry sounds familiar, like someone I used to know. But it’s been soooo long —”
“Har-har,” said Cherry. “You want to do something?”
“Yes, I do.”
They caught an early movie, another romance-zombie mash-up called A Walk to Dismember, and cruised the main “strip” in the Spider, enjoying attention from Worcester college boys and guys in lowriders who whistled and wanted to drag race. They buzzed Shabooms, and Vi pointed out that some of the kids in line were dressed too fancy to be local. Cherry wondered whether the movie people might actually deign to visit Aubrey’s only nightclub. They didn’t see anyone they recognized.
Around ten they stopped for eats at Mel’s Diner. Vi swirled her fries in some mayonnaise (a gross tic she’d picked up visiting her cousin in Montreal). “So, where are you and Lucas going to live?”
Cherry stared at her plate: a mountain of hash browns with a pool of ketchup on top like a crater of lava. Usually Hash Browntain was her favorite late-night snack, but she’d lost her appetite. It was all this future talk.
“I don’t know. We’ll get an apartment, maybe.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Vi repeated the swirling motion, this time heavenward. “How are you going to support yourselves? Will you work?”
“Jesus, Vi. Do you have to be such a bring-down?”
“What? I’m just asking a totally reasonable question. You guys aren’t gonna live at home.”
“Yeah, I know that,” said Cherry. “I’ll figure it out. I don’t have to think about it right now.”
The SweetWear T-shirt page flashed in her mind.
I DON’T THINK.
Dudes stumbling out of Shabooms swaggered past their window. A chach in white chinos licked his lips.
“You wish!” Cherry shouted. They probably couldn’t hear her through the glass.
“Okay, change of subject,” Vi said. “How was it?”
“What?”
“The sex!” said Vi. “Hello?”
“We haven’t done it,” said Cherry. “You know that.”
Vi blinked with exaggerated slowness. “Quoi?”
“We didn’t do it.”
“You got engaged and you didn’t fuck?”
A woman in the next booth scowled in their direction.
“No,” said Cherry. “But there was stuff. I mean, new stuff.”
“Did you . . . ?” Vi made a fist, bulged out a cheek.
Cherry laughed. “Not yet. I’ve actually never done . . . that. Not even with Deke.”
“Well, you should,” said Vi. “Dude puts a ring on it — he should get something.”
“Well, technically there was no ring, so . . .” said Cherry.
There was a tap on the window, which they ignored. The tap came louder, and Cherry put her middle finger to the glass, not wanting to bother with more douches in chinos. Vi’s eyes turned to dinner plates.
“Cherry, look!”
Cherry looked. Ardelia was standing on the curb. She waved and made a Why? gesture. The blond girl from Burrito Barn was with her, texting.
Sorry! Cherry mouthed, and leaped up. She tripped past the ding-ding of the diner door and ran into Ardelia’s hug.
“Fancy meeting you here!” she said. “Cherry, this is my best friend and manager, Spanner Grace.”
The blonde glanced up from her phone long enough to twitch her eyebrows.
“Hi,” Cherry said lamely. “Looks like you been out clubbing.”
Ardelia wore a form-hugging red dress. Her bitchy friend was in a ramrod-straight black skirt. Even made-up, she wasn’t as pretty as Ardelia. Cherry rolled that thought around in her head, sav
oring it.
“We were at the club up the street, but I was mobbed, so we left.” She glanced at the diner. “What are you doing?”
Mel’s Diner suddenly seemed toxically lame. Old biddies, the high-school boys. Cherry shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“Ohh.” Ardelia rubbed her hands together. “I would kill for a milk shake. Span, what do you think?”
“We’re expected,” said Spanner. She was also British, but while Ardelia’s accent fluttered and weaved, the other girl’s stuck to its perch, wings clipped. She bet this girl would never try Laffy Taffy — or Hash Browntain, for that matter.
“Oh, right, the thing,” Ardelia said. She took Cherry’s hands. “Do you want to come?”
Spanner and Cherry exchanged matching glances. “Come where?”
“Maxwell’s having a party. Just a small thing at his suite in Boston. Friends and cast members.”
Maxwell Silver. Movie star. Heartthrob. Ardelia was inviting her to an after-hours party at his hotel room. She glanced down at her cutoffs and tatty halter. “I’m not really dressed. . . .”
“Oh, come on. Nobody cares. It’ll be fun! Besides, you can save me from the boring studio people.” She leaned in close. “Not one of them knows how to change a tire.”
Spanner slipped her phone into a tiny black clutch and closed it with a snap.
Had Vi been right there, Cherry’s response would have been an instant and firm no. Vi would beg, Cherry would put her foot down, Ardelia would go, and they’d probably never see each other again.
But.
No one Cherry knew was standing there to make sure she acted like her usual self. Right now she was Ardelia Deen’s Cherry, who maybe could do things Regular Cherry couldn’t. Maybe Ardelia’s Cherry could say fuck it and go to parties . . . in Boston . . . with celebrities . . . in her Daisy Dukes. Shit, anything was possible.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Can my friend come? She’s inside.”
“The more, the merrier!”
“Not really,” Spanner mumbled. Cherry pretended not to hear it.
“I’ll be back in a second,” Cherry said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Vi did not raise her eyes as Cherry relayed the invitation. She contemplated her tuna melt instead.
“I can’t.”
“What?” said Cherry, unbelieving. Vi turn down a party? They were now officially in Bizarro World. “I mean, what? I thought you’d freak. Why not?”
Vi glanced out the window. Ardelia was taking a picture with a passing gaggle of girls.
“Cherry, I just . . . with them? It’s too much. I’d be too nervous.”
“Don’t be like that. She’s nice.”
Vi shook her head.
Ardelia was waving to her again. A black SUV pulled to the curb. It was all sparkles and chrome out there.
“I’m going,” said Cherry. “You’re invited. You should come.”
“I’ll just go home,” said Vi, her voice small.
“You don’t have a car.”
“I guess I’ll walk, then.”
Cherry wanted to smack her, to snap her out of it, to punish her for this guilt trip. Instead, they hugged good-bye stiffly, and it was Cherry who held on a little too long. She wandered back outside, realizing too late she’d stuck Vi with the bill, but she was too embarrassed to go back. Suddenly Mel’s Diner was the warmest, friendliest place ever, and she was stepping into a cold night with strangers.
“All good?” Ardelia said.
Cherry nodded. She climbed into the plush SUV, glancing back. Vi was texting, sipping Cherry’s milk shake. She looked content enough.
The car, the party, the jealous gaggle on the sidewalk . . . and Cherry was something, but all good wasn’t it.
Stars of Alive and Unmarried stayed at the Parcae, a scalloped and terraced hotel in the shadow of the John Hancock building. At midnight the facade was lit white as a wedding cake, and men in gold frogging held open the doors.
Cherry felt her pockets.
“Did you lose something?” Ardelia asked.
“Should I tip the door guy?”
Ardelia laughed and took her arm. It was just the three of them in the elevator, and Cherry was possessed by a childhood impulse to push all the buttons. But this elevator had no buttons at all.
“It’ll take us straight to the master suites,” Ardelia explained.
“First time in a lift?” Spanner asked.
“No. Obviously,” said Cherry. “And in America we call them elevators.” This was out before Cherry realized she might also be insulting Ardelia. Spanner pounced.
“Did you hear that?” Spanner asked her friend. “Elevator. What a novel word! Why, I must remember it next time I’m taking the lorry to the loo to find my bumbershoot.”
“Oh, stop it,” Ardelia said, smirking.
“Is this the new thing in America?” Spanner asked Cherry’s reflection. She pointed lazily to Cherry’s cutoffs.
“Sort of.”
“Very rustic.”
“Well, I didn’t know I was going out tonight.”
“No, Spanner’s right.” Ardelia tapped her chin.
“She is?”
There was an Emergency Stop button. She could always hit that. Why wasn’t there a Teleport Home button?
Ardelia snapped her fingers. “I know! Let’s switch shoes.”
Cherry obeyed, exchanging her frayed Converse for Ardelia’s pumps. Unused to high heels, Cherry tottered over the other girls. She considered the effect, Ardelia in her gown and sneakers, Cherry in cutoffs and blazing red stilettos.
“Voilà,” said Ardelia. “Now it’s fashion.”
As if this were the secret password, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. There were five master suites on this floor, including Ardelia’s. Maxwell’s was in the northeast corner, down a length of vanilla carpet, past two pearly double doors. Music, voices, and the chatter of glasses and ice cubes sounded on the other side. Ardelia pulled the silvery handle, grinning at Cherry, and then they were in.
She couldn’t make out anything about the room beyond its size, so thick was the press of human bodies, satin, and skin. A fog of perfume, beer, and pot smoke hung over the crowd. A yellow feather bobbled toward the bar, an outcropping of someone’s ridiculous hat. There was a woman’s shoe in the chandelier.
“Ardelia!”
Something shiny entered the clearing by the door where Ardelia, Cherry, and Spanner stood. The shiny thing pressed a martini glass into Cherry’s hand and swallowed Ardelia in a hug.
“Maxwell!”
Maxwell Silver was dressed in a glossy black shirt with the top three buttons unfastened. In her new heels, Cherry had three inches on the man she and Vi had swooned over in Heavy Metal Pirates. Maxwell’s hand cupped Ardelia’s lower back. She seemed to lift a little with the pressure. The costars exchanged words from the sides of their equally perfect mouths, Maxwell letting slip some inside joke that reduced Ardelia to giggles. Cherry felt a flash of jealousy and took a sip from Maxwell’s martini. Gasoline and vinegar.
“Max, this is Cherry,” Ardelia said, gesturing Vanna White–style. Maxwell’s eyes followed Ardelia’s gesture down to Cherry’s toes and up again.
“Charmed.” He offered his hand, which Cherry moved to shake, but he dived for the martini glass instead. “In the business?”
“She isn’t!” Ardelia said with glee.
“Thank Christ. This way.”
Maxwell took her hand now, and Cherry was dragged bodily through the masses while her mind still wobbled by the door: Maxwell Silver had checked her out.
Maxwell held one hand; Ardelia trailed behind holding the other. Bodies parted for their host. Then they were at the bar, something out of Ariel’s undersea bower in The Little Mermaid.
“What’s your poison?” It took Cherry a beat to realize Maxwell was addressing her.
“A . . . beer?”
She wasn’t a drinker. You had to stay soberish to keep an ey
e on Vi, whose hair usually needed holding. But she was no one’s designated tonight. The bartender handed her a brown bottle with a German label.
“So what do you do, if you don’t do what we do?” Maxwell said in his ticklish accent.
“Bup!” said Ardelia, removing Maxwell’s hand from where it brushed Cherry’s — she hadn’t even noticed it there. “Not this one, Max.”
“I’m making conversation.”
“On the make, more like it.”
Maxwell groaned. “She’s such a Mama Hen, isn’t she?”
Again, Cherry didn’t realize she was being spoken to. She kept forgetting this wasn’t happening on a screen but live, and she was an active participant.
Ardelia’s hand was on her right arm now, Maxwell’s on her left. “Don’t let those blue eyes fool you. He’s a scoundrel.”
She was supposed to say something now, and not wanting to look like an idiot mute, Cherry said, “Don’t worry. That play don’t play.”
It was an old line, but Maxwell cackled. “‘That play don’t play.’ I love it! Can I use that?”
Cherry was mid-sip, and by the time she’d lowered her bock lager or whatever it was, a pale hand had snaked around Maxwell’s waist and he turned away.
Cherry hid behind her beer bottle. “What am I doing here?”
Ardelia puffed a stray strand of inky hair. “I know, it is a bit much, isn’t it? But I mean it about Maxwell.” The humor left her voice. She was like a news anchor transitioning from the weather report to “Buyer Beware.” She squeezed Cherry’s elbow. “Steer clear of him. He’s the devil incarnate.”
Ardelia guided Cherry through the room, introducing her to beautiful people of both sexes and the occasional distinguished old fart with white hair and a black turtleneck. But soon Ardelia was called away, and Cherry had to fend for herself. She was good at parties, typically, but these people talked about things entirely foreign to her, about places she’d never heard of, like Croatia, and the best place to buy organic cheese. But more than anything else, movie people talked about themselves. They talked about other times they had been at parties and talked about themselves.
Cherry Money Baby Page 6
