Turned out he worked as a copywriter for DDB advertising agency and had written this book in his spare time over the past two years. That meant giving up any semblance of a social life, he told me, cashing in the evenings he used to spend clubbing by banging away on his computer. (And I wasn’t sure what I envied more, the fact that he gave up clubbing to write or the fact that he’d been clubbing in the first place.) He wasn’t sure if he was writing anything people would care about. “I had a story I had to tell, that’s all I knew,” he said. “Corny as that sounds.” After he found an agent and he started shopping the manuscript, he found himself in a bidding war, a rare occurrence for a first-time author. Only once he made it through the grueling editing process did he realize how much of his life he’d let slide, and—pardon me while my ears perked—he was eager to get things back on track.
So the guy set my hormones in motion. Even more amazing was how comfortable I felt talking to Sebastian. Like talking to one of my girlfriends—only a handsome girlfriend who was starting to get the faintest shadow of stubble along her strong, masculine jaw.
“Aren’t you nervous?” I asked.
“A bit. I can’t believe this turnout. And the L.A. Times book reviewer is supposed to show up.”
“That seems like a pretty big deal.”
“It could make me or break me.”
The room filled, and I was taking up the attention of the man of honor. “I feel like I’m hogging the bride and groom at a wedding,” I confessed to him.
“I’m grateful for the distraction, but you’re right. I should be mingling. Here, let me introduce you around.” He took my arm, then hesitated before saying, “June…you have any nicknames?”
“My mom calls me June Bug. My brother had a few that don’t bear repeating. Why?”
“You don’t strike me as a June. I see you as having a spunkier name. Like, oh, I don’t know, JJ.”
Then he led me into the crowd. “Come on, JJ, I need you with me to face the firing squad.”
I met his agent and his publicist, each one shaking my hand and saying things along the lines of “It is so wonderful to meet you” and, even more strangely, “JJ, you’re everything I imagined.”
I’d heard movie people were a bunch of phonies. Maybe publishing people were the same—lots of air kissing and pretending to be fabulous friends. It was baffling, however, how many congratulated me. I could understand Sebastian…but me? After the third time it happened—the woman had even grabbed my hand and said, “Sebastian, you bad boy…why is this still bare?” I turned to Sebastian.
“What the heck was that all—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but we’re ready to get under way.”
He escorted me to a chair in the front of the room. “I saved this seat for you,” he said, and he kissed my cheek before heading to the podium.
Sebastian read several excerpts from his novel, which was quite good. It was the story of a man who met the love of his life in the 1960s at a Peter, Paul & Mary concert and followed their courtship against the backdrop of the folk music era. It was quirky and smart—a romance novel, only from the man’s point of view.
After reading, he answered questions from the audience. Then he introduced and thanked the agent and publicist I’d met earlier. Before finishing, he said, “And lastly, allow me to introduce my beloved JJ.” Everyone applauded, and he motioned for me to stand, which I did, waving around to the people while confusion and dread formed a stew in my stomach. My beloved JJ?
Psycho. The guy was clearly a psycho. Oh, why did I ever let Susan talk me into the Internet? Everyone knows it’s crawling with loonies.
As I entertained thoughts of being held captive in a cellar later while Sebastian decided which part of me he’d use to make his coat of human flesh, the guy who’d served as bouncer earlier announced that we’d be taking a brief break, after which Mr. Forbes would sign books.
Sebastian came over and this time kissed my forehead. “How’d I do?”
Be calm…be cool…don’t aggravate the crazy man.…
“Great! But you know what I realized? I need to go.”
His face fell. “You’re leaving?”
“I forgot I have this big meeting tomorrow.” I faked a yawn. “But I loved your book. Thanks so much for inviting me.”
“Can’t you stick around a while longer?”
No sudden movements that might startle him.…“It was lovely, really. But I need to get going.”
“Give me a few more minutes, please. Let me explain.” He pleaded so earnestly—and even though he was a psychopath, his face still seemed sweet—I let him lead me behind a bookshelf, where I figured my screams could be heard. “The L.A. Times book reviewer isn’t here yet, and my publicist says he’s due any minute. Can’t you stay for that, at least?”
“To be honest, Sebastian, I don’t understand what’s going on here.”
“Going on?”
“Everybody acts as if they know me, and they keep congratulating me. Then you introduce me as your beloved JJ.”
“What, people can’t be friendly?”
“Thank you, I’ll be leaving now.”
“Wait!” he whispered urgently, grabbing my arm. “There’s something else.”
“I’m listening.”
“I may have let it get around that we were engaged.”
“Engaged?! Why!?”
“Think about it. I’m writing about a lifelong romance between a man and a woman, but I’m coming to my own event stag? No one would take me seriously.”
“You couldn’t get a friend to pretend for you?”
He released my arm. “I didn’t want to be that…devious. I was hoping you wouldn’t catch on, the press would write it up—and by the time anyone was the wiser, my book would already be at the top of the best-seller list.”
“Weren’t you scared people might see your personal ad?”
“It was a chance I had to take.”
“Sebastian, I wish you luck. I do. But—”
“No buts, please! I’m begging you! Just for another hour or so, pretend to be my fiancée. Please…as a favor to a fellow writer. I hate to ask this of you, but when I got your letter and photo, you seemed so nice.”
“I’m not comfortable with this. I’m sorry….” And I turned to go.
He slumped against the shelf. “You think I’m a lunatic, right?”
“I…uh…” Yes?!!?
“Would it ease your mind if I mention to you that, lovely as you are, you’re not exactly my type?”
“What—” I bristled, finally fed up and not afraid to let him know. Now the psycho was going to insult me as well? “You mean sane?”
“No. Female.”
I stared at him, he shrugged, and after a second a light bulb went on over my head. “Oh.”
No wonder he was so good-looking.
“I’m not in the closet, but for this first book, I thought it would be best if I appeared to be straight. The book has received good buzz. If the press found out I was gay, no matter how glowing the reviews, it would still be a gay man’s account of a romance. I didn’t want to see it limited that way. Believe me, once this hits it big, I won’t care what anyone thinks. I’ll hand out free copies at the Gay fucking Pride parade.”
“I don’t claim to know anything about writing books,” I said, neglecting to mention the Carpoolers Guide to Road Safety I’d authored, “but don’t they say ‘Write about what you know’? Shouldn’t you have written about a gay relationship?”
“This is what I know. It’s the story of my parents’ courtship—and it’s a love story, but it’s also a story about drug addiction and wife swapping and other things they grew out of and would be humiliated to have anyone know they used to do. They’re dead. I wrote this to honor their memory in my heart, but to publicize it to the world as their story would have them spinning in their graves.”
There it was.
How could I not help a man trying to tell his dead p
arents’ story of romance?
“Oh, crud…”
He saw his opening. “Sit next to me while I sign. Emit estrogen. That’s it.”
“Fine,” I huffed. “But you’d better really be gay.”
“Please. Would a straight man wear shoes this expensive?”
AFTERWARD OVER DINNER, I got the whole story. JJ was his boyfriend, to whom the book was dedicated and who—along with the rest of Sebastian’s friends—boycotted the reading. That’s how disgusted they were about his playing straight. But one friend—a Latvian model-trying-to-turn-actress named Mjorka, who had a tendency to be game for anything—had volunteered to play his fiancée. When she canceled on Sebastian for a last-minute shoot in Bolivia, in desperation he posted a profile online to see if he could find someone. Then along came my e-mail.
“JJ’s probably dumped me for good,” he lamented. “So maybe I’ll switch my profile over to a gay site. How do you like Internet dating?”
I explained what I was doing with Marissa’s list and decided to cross off Go on a blind date right there at the table. He made me feel the evening was worth it, applauding so wildly that the waitress came by to ask if champagne was in order.
Chapter 5
Rose Morales peered at me over thick red reading glasses. “So,” she said, straightening papers on the desk between us, “why do you want to be a Big Sister?”
“I love kids, and I feel I have so much to offer,” I replied, delivering the line I’d spent ten minutes rehearsing outside the Big Sister offices. “It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to be a mentor to a girl—to share with her all I have to give.”
Rose nodded.
She seemed to be buying it.
As director of the Los Angeles Big Sister program, she was in charge of interviewing potential Big Sisters—weeding out the felons and any weirdos who were in it for the wrong reasons. While she went over the particulars of being a Big Sister—a “Big,” was how she put it—I sat smugly, congratulating myself on my clever plan. Susan had said I couldn’t handle the task Change someone’s life on my lunch hour, but here I was, noon on a Thursday, doing just that. Or at least getting it started.
The idea had come to me as I’d ridden the bus home the week before. Gazing out the window and listening to Whitney Houston on my iPod—volume low so the hip-looking guy sitting next to me couldn’t overhear—we passed a billboard for the Big Sisters program. In huge type, it announced: “Change Someone’s Life—Be a Big Sister!”
Talk about your signs from above, literally.
I filled out an application online as soon as I got home. Okay, after eating dinner and browsing on eBay for new sunglasses. Still, the speed at which I pushed the idea forward amazed me, considering that changing someone’s life struck me as the most difficult task. It’d take time. Perseverance. The type of thing I’d usually put off—avoiding the hard things until it’s too late to do them right, or to do them at all.
And yet.
If all went well—and Rose had seemed mighty impressed that I worked as a writer, even if it was brochures—I’d soon have a Little Sister of my own. The idea of a sweet, freckled little piece of clay, eager to be shaped and molded, made me giddy. I’d buy her balloons and take her to pet ponies. She’d gaze up at me, her tiny hand clutched in mine, and say, “Gee, you’re so much cooler than my mom.” True, my motives for signing up weren’t entirely sincere. I wanted to change someone more than bond. But as I listened to Rose talk about how vital role models were in the lives of these girls, I remembered how I do believe that children are our future. Teach them well. Let them lead the—
“How often would you want to see a Little?” she asked abruptly.
“How often?”
“Yes. Most people do outings once a week. Or every other week.”
“Weekly,” I said, amazed that that was all they were asking. Why hadn’t I thought to do this before? Why didn’t more people? “Definitely weekly.” Excitedly, I added, “It’ll be so fun! Taking a girl shopping for cute little outfits, and—”
“We frown on shopping sprees,” Rose chided. “It’s not to spoil them so much as to be a positive influence. We suggest sporting events or going to the beach or museums. Even cooking together can be lots of fun and very rewarding for both of you.”
“Of course,” I said, reddening.
Now I knew why more people didn’t do this. It sucks enough to not get a job you want—it’s downright humiliating to be rejected for a volunteer position. How big a loser would you have to be for that? I didn’t care to find out. There was a matter of a July 12 deadline, and if I didn’t get a Little Sister, odds were I wouldn’t encounter any more billboards providing instructions on what to do from there.
Rose must have sensed my worry, because she said, “A little shopping is fine.”
She went on to explain that they’d need to follow up on my references and do a background check, which typically took a few days. “If it pans out, hopefully we’ll have a match for you soon,” she said, packing up my file. “Anything you want to add before I let you go?”
I thought about the five months remaining before my deadline. It didn’t seem like much time to change a life, but it was all I had. “Only that I’m eager to get started,” I said heartily.
FEBRUARY 14. Valentine’s Day. The day started on a sour note by being Valentine’s Day. It then went from bad to worse before I even changed out of my pajamas. I’d stepped on the scale to discover that I’d gained five pounds. I didn’t need Linda and her spreadsheet-making abilities to know that that constituted half of my total weight loss regained—and that every one of those pounds had gone straight to my ass.
No chocolates for me, I realized, sighing. No nibbling at the heart-shaped cookies people would bring into the office. No celebrating the holiday in the way I’d come to know it: as an excuse to consume mass quantities of sugar with joyous abandon. Not after seeing how much I weighed.
Then again…
I leaned over to pick up the scale. Then I placed it directly into the trash.
#17: Throw away my bathroom scale.
That Marissa was a genius, I thought as I scrambled an egg for breakfast—compensation for the damage I’d be doing later to my blood sugar. Getting rid of that scale had been positively liberating. So much so that I’d have tossed away my body shaper underwear, too, if it weren’t for that one blue dress that I look lumpy in without it.
SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH—I’d had a chicken salad to make up for the damage I in fact did to my blood sugar—I popped into Susan’s office. “Am I still on to baby-sit tonight?”
She peered around a bouquet big enough to be mistaken for shrubbery. That was her husband, Chase. More is always more. “If you don’t mind—I’d be forever grateful. We’ve got reservations at Nic’s. Chase’s mother offered to watch the boys, but she had that toe surgery the other day. I hate to ask her to run after a couple of five-year-olds so soon.”
“It’s no problem,” I assured her.
I knew it was a special holiday for them since—and only Susan could pull this off—they’d met on Valentine’s Day. It was back in college, when she and I were at a bar refusing to feel like losers because we were stag. At one point, a drunk guy the size of an army tank bumped into Susan, making her spill her drink over herself. Then he lumbered on without an apology. Chase—who stands six feet two and at the time probably weighed 120 pounds dripping wet—came running over. He tipped his chin in the lunk’s direction and said, “You want me to kick his ass?” We gaped at him for a moment, stunned, and he said, “I’m kidding. The guy’d smash me like a bug.” Susan was instantly smitten, and I’m pleased to report that Chase has since filled out nicely.
They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that—thanks to California’s ridiculous real estate market—was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’s only about 1,600 squ
are feet.
I arrived at the palace at seven o’clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. “Hey, beasts!” I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.
C.J. and Joey—identical twins—were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, “What’s that?” when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’s yearbooks.
“I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,” I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.
“Good luck…hope you find what you’re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,” Susan said. “We won’t be long.”
“No later than ten,” Chase added. “I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’s Day booty.”
Susan grinned at him. “Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.”
“Ah, I’ll wear you down before that. Besides”—he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door—“you’re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.”
“Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!” I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.
Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’t baby-sit that often.
The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)
“We always keep it open,” C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.
The Next Thing on My List Page 5
