Mrs. Jordan’s room was on the first floor. Genghis Khan scowled at Cherry from the poster on the door, his bloody scimitar barring the way forward. She pushed right past him.
The students’ heads were bent, taking a quiz. Mrs. Jordan sat at her desk, doing Sudoku. She didn’t notice Cherry come in. Neil was in the front row, brow furrowed like early man trying to master this new pointed tool. Cherry slapped her palm over his quiz. The sound was like a gun going off. A girl nearby gasped.
“You selfish piece of shit.”
“Ms. Kerrigan!” Mrs. Jordan may or may not have said. Cherry only heard the blood roaring in her ears.
Neil blinked at her, trying to compute.
“You low-life buzz-cut douche bag. Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve ruined her life.”
Kids looked back and forth from Cherry to Neil to Mrs. Jordan.
“Wha . . . ?” Neil said intelligently.
She slammed her fist on his desk, knocking it into his fat knees. “I swear to God, if she’s pregnant, nothing will save you from the Kill Bill–style rampage I will unleash on your ass.”
“W-wha . . . ?” Neil tried again.
Mrs. Jordan was standing now, toddling over in her tiny shoes. “Cherry Kerrigan, you will report directly to —!”
Cherry balled up Neil’s half-finished quiz and threw it at him. It bounced off his stupid face and fell to the floor. Before Mrs. Jordan could reach her, Cherry turned, making sure to give Genghis an extra-hard slam on her way out.
Halfway down the hall, the reality of what she’d just done began to wheedle its way into her brain, but she’d think about that later.
I Don’t Think.
“Come on,” she said when she found Vi.
“Where are we going?” Vi asked. Cherry tugged her toward the exit.
“7-Eleven. We’re getting you a pregnancy test.”
Vi, according to the little blue dash in the window of her Sure! test, was not pregnant. As they sipped iced lattes at Starbucks (Vi’s treat), she kept pulling the little stick out of her pocket and rechecking it.
“It’s not going to change,” Cherry said.
“I know.” Vi’d been wearing a perma-grin for the last hour. “So what class are you missing right now?”
Cherry winced. “A pre-calc retake.”
“Cherry! You’ll get a zero!”
She shrugged, curling herself around the tall, frosty cup. “So? This is more important.”
It was important she be with Vi. Vi needed her. (And who would be there for her at Rutgers? In Japan?)
During the “90 Seconds or Less!” promised by the test’s blue-and-yellow box, Cherry had paced outside the 7-Eleven bathroom like an expectant father. She’d felt conflicted. Would it be so bad if Vi had a baby? Heck, they could raise it together. Cherry wanted kids. Maybe not right after high school, but life didn’t always go like you expected. She imagined herself and Vi taking little Cynthia to the playground on Center Street, buying baby clothes, attending PTA meetings at Elm Elementary. These images filled Cherry with a guilty pleasure. Because now she’ll have to stay, a voice whispered. Cherry told the voice to shut up.
It should have been Cherry getting her ass reamed in front of Mrs. Jordan’s history class. She wanted exactly what Neil had done: to tie Vi forever to Aubrey, to home, to Cherry.
Then the bathroom door had opened, and Vi waved the pee stick over her head. “Not pregnant!”
“I’m so relieved.” Cherry was never very good at lying. “So . . . relieved.”
Now Vi used her straw to swirl the soggy sugar residue at the bottom of her cup. “So was Neil mad?”
“He just made that gorilla face.”
“Gorilla face?”
Cherry did an impression. Vi laughed.
“I can’t believe you stormed in there. You could get expelled!”
Cherry did a mental checklist of recent infractions, adding up her column of detentions. She’d definitely earned a suspension. She pictured Principal Girder’s girlie handwriting: Demonstrates severe impulse-control problems.
“What are they going to do, expel me two months before graduation?”
“Listen,” said Vi. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Rutgers.”
Cherry shrugged. “That’s okay. So, you’re really going?”
Vi’s eyes went dreamy again, except this time instead of diapers it was quads and frat parties and lecture halls, maybe. “I guess so, yeah. That’s why we should really have an awesome summer together.”
The meaning of this landed, bounced once, landed again. “Oh. Like, one last good time before you go away.”
“No!” Vi said, and then, “Maybe a little.”
“Forget it,” Cherry said casually. “It’s not like I thought you were going to stay here forever.”
“Maybe you could apply next year? We could be roomies!”
Cherry imagined sharing a dorm room in New Brushnow or New Bradford or wherever Rutgers was, one side a version of Vi’s current bedroom, all scented candles and military-straight sheets, the other littered with Cherry’s track shorts and empty yogurt cups. How had they stayed friends all this time? They were so different, really.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Cherry, slurping up her latte until it was all gone.
The link in Ardelia’s e-mail indicated a warehouse on the edge of town, up a long gravel road lined with vans, flatbeds, and double-wides. A kid in a production T-shirt stopped them at a makeshift checkpoint. He tapped the window, and Cherry rolled it down. Dorky glasses. Vest. Did they get these guys from the same family or what?
“Hi, can I help you?” the kid said. His tone sounded like, Please die immediately.
“We’re here to see Ardelia Deen.”
“This is a closed set.”
“We’re invited.” She pointed to his clipboard.
The PA checked his list, nodded, and tapped the roof of the car. “Go ahead. We’re all good.”
“Yeah, I know.” Cherry pushed the accelerator.
Lucas chuckled from the passenger seat. She’d worried he’d be uncomfortable around the movie people. But this wasn’t the hotel party crowd. The set was workaday. Guys in jeans hopped in and out of trucks. PAs spoke into headsets and checked clipboards, and everyone moved with the serious focus of people with a job to do and not enough time to do it in.
“Little bigger than the spring semester play, right?” she said. Lucas had done tech on a few school productions. He’d been recruited as the only kid who knew how to work the lighting board, the only one who could fix a thing if it broke.
“Sure is.”
“Maybe you could get a job as a set designer.”
“And work in Hollywood? I’d rather be eaten by wolves.”
“Whoa. Little extreme?”
“You read about how fake everyone is in Hollywood, shaking your hand while they stab you in the back. And besides, so many movies suck these days.” He glanced at her. “Right?”
“Totally,” she said, not sure if she believed it. She’d liked Heavy Metal Pirates okay.
They came to a chain of trailers with star haulers written on the side in spangle paint. Cherry parked, and the pair stepped into the evening breeze. They waited for a pickup to rumble by before crossing the road.
Lucas read the names stenciled on the doors. “Stewart. Olive. Lucy. Desi.”
“She’s Olive,” said Cherry, and knocked on the door.
Ardelia answered in a thigh-exposing bathrobe and slippers. From the neck up, she was in character, hair parted in the center and gathered in waves over her ears in an old-fashioned, unflattering style. She squealed.
“Hooray! I’m so glad you came. And this must be Lucas! Hello!”
She hugged him. Lucas managed a “Hey.”
“Come in! Come in!”
The interior of Ardelia’s trailer was Maxwell’s hotel suite in miniature. Minibar, mini-kitchenette, even a mini-chandelier. It was smaller than Cherry’s home, but every surf
ace gleamed or bristled with luxury. It smelled like vanilla.
“That’s all, Jan,” Ardelia said to the woman in white standing by the massage table. “Just leave the table — you can get it later.”
Jan smiled politely and excused herself.
“I know, it’s decadent,” Ardelia said in a guilty tone. “But, honestly, most of the day is just waiting around, so you might as well pamper yourself, right? What do you think of my hair?” She fluffed her waves. “It only took them three hours to do it. I’ve been here since four in the morning!” She rolled her eyes.
Ardelia was cheerful, beleaguered, self-effacing, scattered, and attentive all at once. She offered them drinks from the mini-fridge, apologized for the lack of variety (there were seven kinds of soda, water, bubbly water, and a tiny bottle of champagne), and finally sat with an “Oof!” on the velvet couch. She gestured for them to sit on the raspberry love seat.
“Sooo,” she said, half speaking, half taking a breath. She turned to Lucas. “Cherry’s told me a lot about you.”
Lucas looked Cherry’s way, as if to verify this. “Oh . . . yeah?”
“You’re a graffiti artist. And also the love of her life.” Ardelia flashed her teeth.
“Ardelia’s into Bonzo,” Cherry offered. Lucas nodded. This was where he was supposed to say something. He nodded some more.
“Oh!” Ardelia patted Cherry’s knee. “I meant to tell you. Maxwell says it was a joy having you there on Friday. He said you were the life of the party.”
Lucas perked up. “Maxwell?”
“The guy who hosted the party,” Cherry said quickly.
“Like, Maxwell Silver? As in Captain Keith?”
“Oh, you’ve seen Pirates?” Ardelia said.
Lucas studied Cherry. “That’s . . . cool.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Maxwell,” Ardelia said. “He’s a cad. Only a floozy would fall for his charms.”
Cherry recalled Spanner on the futon. Heh.
“Okay,” said Lucas.
“So,” said Cherry, ready to change the subject, “was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I think . . .” Ardelia started, her eyes moving to the clock. Just then “God Save the Queen” tittered from the side table. “Well, speak of the devil!” She answered her phone. “Hello? Oh, hi, B!”
Lucas made a withering expression, and Cherry shoved his knee.
“Why, yes, he’s here right now. Do you want to talk to him? Just a moment.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Lucas, do you have a minute? Someone would like to speak with you.”
He glanced at Cherry, bewildered. Cherry shrugged.
Confused, Lucas put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” His face went slack. “Seriously?”
Cherry mouthed to Ardelia, Who?
Bonzo, she mouthed back.
“Wow, I mean. It’s . . . an honor.” Holy shit! Lucas mouthed to Cherry. “Yeah, I’m a huge fan.” He stood, paced. “Yeah, I tag. I mean, not like you. Just . . . right. It’s amazing to talk to you. I always wanted to ask, on the Obama piece, did you lay down an aerosol base or . . . yeah, exactly! I knew it!”
“Come on,” Ardelia said, taking Cherry’s arm. “Let’s leave the artists alone.”
They stepped outside. It was cooler now; the sun had sunk behind the tree line. Ardelia gathered her robe around her neck. Cherry’s shorts and tee exposed more skin, but she wondered if Ardelia didn’t feel a little weird walking around in her tiny robe. No one seemed to notice, though. Stagehands carried a plaster buggy to a flatbed truck; PAs shouted at one another.
“You know Bonzo?” Cherry said.
“Not really, but I made a few phone calls. Amazing what a pair of premiere tickets can buy you.”
“You just made his whole year.”
“Listen.” Ardelia touched Cherry’s arm. “I wanted to talk to you about something. I’ve got a . . . personal problem.” She made a so-so gesture with her hand. “Well, not a problem. More like a personal project.”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
Cherry sighed. “You’re leaving, right? The movie’s wrapping, and you’re gonna go do your indie film somewhere.” She pictured one of those groaner indie films that movie stars did to up their street cred. All handheld cameras. Someone gets cancer and comes home for a shitty wedding. Lots of crying and screaming and whiny music. She hated those.
Ardelia laughed. “No! We’ve still got a few more weeks of shooting.”
“Oh,” said Cherry. “So, why’d you get all serious?”
“I’m screwing this up royally, aren’t I?” Ardelia said. “I’m getting serious, Cherry, because I want to offer you a job.”
Cherry stopped in her tracks. “A job? Like, working for the studio?”
“Not the studio,” said Ardelia. “I want to put you on my payroll. I want you to work for me.”
“Doing what?”
Ardelia placed her hands on her tummy, jutting out her hips so her flat stomach looked round. “I want a baby,” she said. “And I want you to help me find a womb.”
“Um,” said Cherry. “April Fools?”
On April 3, Cherry worked her last day at Burrito Barn. The manager who’d witnessed the Ardelia incident had returned to grad school. His replacement, the new New Manager, was only a year older than Cherry and a freshman at Holy Cross.
“I’m just doing this until my summer internship starts,” she said, accepting Cherry’s folded uniform and visor. “Two months is about all I can take of this place.”
Cherry raised her hand. “Three and a half years.”
New New looked horrified. “You should get a gold watch.”
“It’s just a break,” said Cherry. “I’m doing this other thing for a little while, but I’ll be back.”
New New snapped her gum. “Why?”
For old time’s sake, Cherry purchased a burrito (New New didn’t roll it right — way too loose) and ate it in the parking lot, no longer an employee, just a paying customer. Tossing away the soggy wrapper, she felt like she was leaving behind the only thing she’d ever done well.
Her paychecks from Burrito Barn had paid for her cell and incidentals, like nights out with Vi or Lucas. She’d also contributed to family expenses, sometimes stopping at Hadwin Market, throwing eggs, bread, and milk in with her personal items. Pop never asked her to do this — it was just something you did, like making your bed or plucking hairs off the Irish Spring after a shower. Now Cherry had a new, better-paying job, and that meant she could help out more. She kept reminding herself of this, since she wasn’t sure she deserved her new paycheck.
As Ardelia’s “consultant,” she would be paid for her opinions, but how could her opinions be worth money since they just happened — she just had them — without any effort on her part? She wasn’t sure the job constituted work. Work was supposed to be hard, unpleasant, or at least produce something — like a burrito. How could she justify charging for something that cost her nothing? It didn’t seem fair.
“It’s supply and demand,” Ardelia pointed out. Cherry had come to pick up her first week’s pay in advance. A night shoot was scheduled, and though it was four in the afternoon, Ardelia’s workday hadn’t started yet. She poured herself a protein shake and took a thunking swallow. “Your candor and perceptiveness are of value to me.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” said Spanner, cutting a check. “You start Saturday. The first candidate arrives at eleven, so get here at ten thirty. Don’t be late.”
Ardelia powered through the rest of her breakfast and daintily dabbed her lips. “So, how’s school?”
Cherry shrugged, marveling at all the zeros. “I don’t know. I haven’t been in two days.”
Cherry was suspended for a week after reaming Neil. Pop had gone ballistic. This, coupled with breaking curfew, would have normally earned her a life sentence. But he calmed down later when Cherry told him about working for Ardelia. And he f
orgot her grounding entirely when she mentioned the rate.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Pop said, holding Cherry’s check up to the kitchen halogen. “You don’t turn down a soft gig.”
“I feel like I’m scamming her.” Cherry was scrubbing the breakfast pans, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back in a bandanna — her standard ensemble for housework. Being home during the school day, she helped out more; the trailer had never been so spotless. She’d even de-mildewed the bathroom, and the heady taint of bleach floated through the trailer and out the open windows. Her home with Lucas, whatever it would look like, would not smell like a boys’ locker room, damn it.
“This Deen seems pretty smart. You should have asked for more.”
He handed her the check and returned to his Eggos and sausage links, dribbling syrup on the table she’d just wiped down.
“It’s not a career, Pop. Just a few interviews.”
“Better than rolling burritos.”
Cherry’s eyes stung (stupid bleach). She’d always assumed Pop was proud of her Burrito Barn job. He was always going on about honest work and dependability and earning your keep. Had he meant those things, or was that just something you told yourself when you couldn’t find a soft gig?
This soft gig would pay double her Burrito Barn salary, and though the prospect of extra fun money and free time was titillating, Cherry was still uncomfortable. She’d rather Ardelia had just asked her as a friend.
On the subject of friendship: Cherry wasn’t sure she and Ardelia were actually friends, now that Ardelia was, for a few hours a week at least, her employer. It surprised her to think this way at all, since from the beginning she’d told herself she didn’t care what Ardelia thought of her, that they were passing acquaintances at best, that Ardelia was maybe surprisingly cooler than her mega-glam lifestyle would suggest, and that Cherry was a little more comfortable in her presence than she’d expected to be. But spending more time with Ardelia — structured, professional time — Cherry wondered whether Ardelia actually liked her, or if Cherry was just a local curiosity, like a cheap Red Sox cap you wore around a few days as a joke, then threw away.
Cherry Money Baby Page 9
