by Deb Caletti
It all made me so happy, and ridiculously hopeful. I decided to remember her, that old woman. She’d be my new role model. My sixteenth-birthday message. The confident whatever that I’d aim to have. The attitude I’d bring to IT.
This lasted maybe two minutes. Until the moment I spread out my towel and wiggled out of my cutoffs and took my tank top off. I lay there in my bikini. Every fault seemed to shout, Don’t look! Every part that might be beautiful whispered, Look. Displaying faults or beauty seemed equally hazardous.
* * *
I propped myself on my elbows. I watched a kid dig a hole and try to fill it with water, and spied on a couple that seemed to be having an argument. The sun got warmer. I took out my lotion and rubbed it on my arms and legs, and dotted it on my face. I tilted my chin up and remembered that it was my birthday.
Far off, I spotted a guy making his way along the rocks. I watched him climb and edge down before hopping onto the sand. He kicked his sandals off. Closer now, I saw that he carried a pack and wore a faded brown T-shirt with khaki shorts. He swung off the pack, chose a driftwood log, and sat down with his back against it.
I liked his curly black hair. It was the kind of hair you’d want to put your hands in. He was close to my age, I guessed. There was something about him that felt familiar. Like someone I’d already met but didn’t yet know. Like a book you think you’ve read before but aren’t quite sure.
He unzipped the pack and took out a thin black journal. At least, I decided it was a journal when he also took out a pen and popped the cap off with his mouth. I wondered what he was writing in there. The city was kind of hipster, so maybe he was doing something hipster, like writing poetry.
The rock climbing, the journal, that hair—it gave me a story about him already, even if I had no idea what the actual sentences were. He was cute, too. Really cute. I should mention that. The sort of cute that ignites an awareness in you—of him, of your own self, of some potential energy between you.
It was my birthday, and the sun felt good, and a guy had whistled at me and I forgot the uncomfortable part of that and remembered the part where I’d made him want me. I started to imagine how my new sexiness would draw the boy over to me, and we’d talk. We’d decide to go somewhere, and I’d totally ditch Lila, and on my birthday, too. We’d be in his car and we’d drive, and Lila would be freaked out, would call and call, but I wouldn’t answer. We’d stop somewhere and kiss and our hands would be all over each other and who knew after that. Mostly, I’d get whatever I’d been badly needing, and fun, life-changing stuff would happen, and I’d be transformed into who I was meant to be—someone powerful and sure, instead of the person who always cut her own hair and nervous-peed before every oral report.
I got up and brushed the sand off my legs. I walked toward the ocean. I dipped my toe in, then bent down to scoop some water. I let it fall down my arms as if I needed cooling down. The guy was still writing in his journal. He hadn’t even looked up.
I walked back to my towel. I tried to catch his eye, but nope. I stretched out my long legs. Reapplied the lotion. Took a long drink of water from my bottle. Propped myself on one elbow on my side. It was 100 percent Lila. A Vanity Fair article from ten years ago showed her in that very pose on a bed of glass shards that she told me were actually a soft, gelatinous plastic.
I snuck another glance. The guy was watching the little kid trying to fill the hole with water. Then he bent his head down and went back to writing.
God! It was frustrating. Confusing, too. I wondered if my new allure worked only on old guys, and not the ones my own age who I actually wanted it to work on.
I gave up. I opened my new R. W. Wright, The Deepest Dark. I got to the part where the bitchy girl was unbuttoning her blouse seductively, so you knew she was going to get it. And I realized, you know, that that’s how it always went in his books. If a girl had sex with a lot of different guys—boom. Dumb blondes or women with big boobs were always goners. If she asked for it by taking nude swims at midnight or running alone through the woods, watch out. You only got to live, bloodied but triumphant, if you were nice and modest, pretty but not beautiful. Without desire. Clean.
I went for a swim. I felt irritated. When I got back, I let things happen to that book that I never would have before. Water dripped on the paper. Sand got between the pages. R. W. Wright was kind of getting on my nerves.
* * *
“I can’t believe you weren’t here when I woke up! On your birthday, too!” Lila was all ready to go out for the day—white capris, black tank, white sunglasses on her head. She snapped her handbag closed.
“You ditched me last night. Because Jake had his feelings hurt.”
“I told you, you really need to give him a chance. Look what came when you were gone.” Her shoes clicked toward the entryway, and when she returned, she was holding a glass vase of pink baby roses. “Ah, smell.”
“For me?” The room filled with pink rose–iness. Even Max had his nose up.
“Yes, for you.”
I opened the tiny card. Happy 16! Let’s go get that permit, sister!
Wow. “That was nice of him. Really nice,” I said. It was so nice that I felt kind of bad for hurting him.
“See? Did your father even call?”
Ugh! “Not yet. I’m sure he will.”
“I don’t know why you always defend him.” I stayed silent and took the blow, because I didn’t know why I did either. Lila hunted for the keys to her Land Rover. “Baker, huh? Did you see a bunch of wrinkled snakes?”
“Yeah, but also this cool old woman who couldn’t care less what anyone thought.”
“Oh, baby, she cares. Her nonchalance is a different kind of caring. It’s pretending-you-don’t-care caring. Think how much attention she was getting.”
“I think she just wanted to be herself.”
“Attention is currency.”
“Yuck,” I said. “I hate that idea.”
“Damn it. I swear they were right here.” She tossed her purse on the kitchen table, started hunting under the mail on the counter. “Can you believe you’re sixteen? Do you know what I was doing at sixteen? No, fifteen.”
“Getting your first job with MGM.”
“Getting my first job with MGM.”
You probably know the story of how she was discovered, but they got a few things wrong. She wasn’t at Langer’s Deli eating a pastrami sandwich. She doesn’t even eat stuff like that. She was at a plain old Peet’s near her school, Crenshaw High, in LA, where Edwina had moved them in order to get Lila into acting. This was before Peet’s was Peet’s and Starbucks was Starbucks—they were just a couple of coffee shops. She’d skipped class and was sitting there drinking an espresso when Richard Mulaney saw her. He was so blown away by her looks that he arranged to have her meet Abe Daniel, her longtime agent before Lee. Rex Clancy gave Lila her first role, as the wayward daughter in The Girl Is Gone.
“Working. And partying my butt off, if I’m being honest. Totally out of control.” She was back to looking in her purse again. Unzipping the pockets she’d just zipped, unsnapping the compartments she’d just snapped.
“I don’t intend to do any of that. Partying my butt off, I mean.”
“Edwina has turned you into a priss.”
“I like being a priss. I’m my own priss.” I wasn’t really a priss. Not in my imagination. If R. W. Wright could’ve read my mind, he’d have offed me, too.
“Oh my God, look!” She held up her keys. “They were right here all along. Let me tell you, Syd-Syd. You don’t know what the year will hold for you. Anything could happen.”
Well, she was right about that, wasn’t she? Anything could. And everything did.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Exhibit 22: Visa statements, L. Shore, Jan.–Aug.
Exhibit 23: American Express statements, L. Shore, Jan.–Aug.
Exhibit 24: Mastercard statements, L. Shore, Jan.–Aug.
Lila and I hit all the boutiques on Fillmor
e. It was my birthday present. Lila was excited about a surprise she’d planned for that night too. I could tell she was excited, because she was shopping as much for herself as for me. She was looking for something special. I’ll know it when I see it. That’s how I felt too, but not about clothes.
Right here, you can picture the scene in any of those movies where, well, it’s usually some rich guy dressing up some less fortunate woman like she’s a Barbie. She tries on various things for him to see, twirling and smiling shyly as he nods his approval or shakes his head to indicate it’s not the outfit for her. He showers her with extravagance so she experiences the joy of feeling good about herself, all the while being the big man with money who gets to make sure she’s up to his standards when she’s on his arm.
This time, though, it was Lila and me, and maybe the same things applied. She talked me into this short white dress I’d never normally wear because it was way out of my comfort zone, all the while saying stuff like, You gotta get out of your comfort zone. Mostly, at home, I wore jeans and T-shirts like everyone else, crew gear, leggings and a sweatshirt. Now, same as those men in the movies, Lila nodded or shook her head.
But we left with lots of bags like in those movies too, stacked up along our arms. And it was not unfun to buy bunches of really expensive clothes that they wrapped individually in tissue paper and put into their own shiny bags with rope handles. It was not unfun to go anywhere with Lila. I remembered why I was excited to see her. And how great it could be when it was the two of us. She was spending time with me, and noticing me, and approving of me, and laughing at the things I said, and it sounds stupid to say this, but it was like she loved me. Then again, 95 percent of anything we do is probably to get that feeling.
Even though I preferred my comfort zone, I kind of liked her pressing me out of it too. Like she had confidence that I could be more than I was—sexier, prettier, shinier. More seemed like it would get me closer to my fated destination, whatever that was. Primarily, not where I was right then.
We went to Joie and then Alice + Olivia, and we got a few shirts and found Lila’s something special—a short dress of silver sequins—and then went on to Paige, where I got a flowered sundress and a plain one, a pair of shorts, and two tees. They were the kind of places where there’s a small amount of clothing in a very white, elegant space, nothing like the jam-packed H&M at University Village, where I usually went. Lila always said that you could tell the difference between a three-hundred-dollar T-shirt and a twelve-dollar one, but Edwina thought that was nonsense. Honestly, if you put two T-shirts next to each other and ripped off the tags, I doubt I could tell.
Lila loved the moment when she slid her credit card across the counter and the saleswoman recognized her name and made a fuss. I could see how my mother always held her shoulders back and pursed her lips in a waiting smile when it was time. At Paige, though, it didn’t happen. The girl was a little older than me, and… nothing. She didn’t recognize the name. She didn’t recognize Lila. She rang up my clothes like Lila was anyone.
I could see Lila’s mood turn. Her energy just kind of slipped, like a car downshifting.
* * *
“Done?” Lila asked.
“Done,” I said. “Thanks. That was great.”
It was late afternoon. We’d just split a salad at the Progress. It wasn’t really that great and the service was slow, but then something awful happened. The waitress came back with the black padded folder. She leaned down as if whispering a terrible secret. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shore. There seems to be a problem with your card.”
Holy shit. And on top of that, the waitress had called her “Mrs. Shore.”
Lila huffed and took out her wallet and gave the waitress another card, but in a few moments, the waitress was back again. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a bit louder and more reprimanding. “Perhaps you have cash?”
I reached for my own bag, which only made things worse. “No, no, no,” Lila snapped. “Put it away! There’s something wrong with their fucking machine.” She was making a big show of being upset, exhaling, rolling her eyes, like, How could they treat me like this? My stomach knotted. I had a horrible feeling in my chest. Horrible.
Something was very wrong. I was embarrassed, too. People were looking at us. Lila tossed a wad of cash on the table and the waitress had to gather it. In those movies, you never see that happen. No one’s card gets denied. You never witness the guilt you feel afterward, bringing home the bags of stuff no one in their right mind should afford. There’s only some song from the 1970s playing and the girl coming out from the dressing room in various outfits as the guy grins like his steak just arrived exactly how he likes it cooked.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Lila said when we got in the car. “Never going back there again.” She made her voice bright and cheerful, but all of a sudden, her face looked a little tired. I mean, like, for two seconds. I saw maybe that she was under stress. A lot of stress. Her makeup, her foundation, had little cracks in it around her mouth. I felt sorry for her. I saw the burden she carried too, taking care of all of us—herself, me, Edwina.
I started to worry—about Lila and money. About us. I didn’t know if we were okay. I wished I could make things better. I wanted to fix it for her. She was my mother, you know. That’s how it works. You hate them sometimes, but then you’d do anything so they won’t be sad. Anything. As a kid, you need your parent to be happy, or otherwise, God, the weight is huge. You feel anxious, as if you’ve failed. It’s hard to deserve anything then.
The worry—it rattled me. It was that dread again. At first, it was like the unsettling chiming of crystals on a swinging chandelier, and then more like the clatter of teacups and china in a shuddering cupboard. Worse and worse. Getting stronger.
Tremors before the quake.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Exhibit 25: Chase bank statements, L. Shore, 2010–present
Exhibit 26: Sworn statement of Sean James, manager, EML (Entertainment Management Ltd.)
Exhibit 27: Unsigned rental agreement, 716 Sea Cliff Drive
That night, as Lila and I got dressed in our new stuff, her excitement returned, so I tried to forget about lunch and the uneasiness that was trying to shake me with its long fingers. The money was a shadow worry; the ghost hovered around the ceiling. But I forced myself to feel all that shiny possibility again. Nothing bad was going to happen. Maybe things were okay. Maybe it was their machine.
Lila wouldn’t tell me where we were going, or what we were doing. At 716 Sea Cliff, the windows of the White Room lit up with the twinkles of the city in the night sky, and Lila was twinkling too, in her sparkly silver dress. I had my white dress on, as well as a pair of Lila’s really high platforms. These! she’d said. It has to be these! Most of the time I wore athletic shoes or sandals, and sixteen sounded so different from fifteen that I felt like someone else. Someone not me. Someone more like Lila, but definitely not Lila.
We took a bunch of selfies. We were so excited and high energy that Max kept jumping up. Lila seemed proud of me in my new clothes. I finally opened my gift from Meredith and her mom, a beautiful necklace with a silver heart, and I wore it with my dress, sending them a photo to say thank you. I think maybe Lila had had a drink or two by this point, because she was laughing a lot, and there was that alcohol smell, and when we went outside, she got her heels stuck in the grass. I was walking unsteadily too. I told myself it was only the shoes, but maybe it was more than that.
* * *
“Roll up that window, would you, baby? My hair,” Lila said.
We were back in her Land Rover, and the window was down only the tiniest crack, but I did what she asked. We were heading in the direction of Fillmore again. I realized there was probably a reason she’d ducked into one of the busiest restaurants on the street while we were there that afternoon.
We pulled up in front of a small brown building with only the word Provisions above its windows. Lila smiled hugely and raised her eyebrows a
s if waiting for my response. I was supposed to understand the large thing she’d pulled off, but I didn’t. “State Bird? Do you know how long it takes to get a reservation for this place, let alone for fourteen people?”
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks, Lila.” But I didn’t know fourteen people in that city.
It was silly, but for a second I expected to walk in and see my own friends, maybe even Edwina or my father, who I hadn’t seen in over a year, and who still hadn’t called. But, no. Around the table were Lila’s friends, many that I’d never met before—one of the writers from Two Bros, the Netflix show that was filmed in North Beach, and the director of the San Francisco Opera, even though Lila hated opera. Lila’s old pal Louise was there too. Lila always called Louise her crisis manager as a joke, but it was pretty much true. I sat in the empty chair next to Lee, Lila’s agent, who was there with his husband, Adam.
On my other side… well, holy shit. It was Jayson Little, the younger brother on Two Bros Jayson Little! He was in his early twenties, but we were the youngest people there. I felt all blushy, and stupid things were coming out of my mouth, and Cora would die because she loved him. I was trying to pretend this was my normal life, because in some ways it was, but in more ways it wasn’t.
Picture all this glittery candlelight and the vibe of money and important, interesting people in the room, and food that was so elegant that it was just plain wrong that the only future it had was heading straight for the waterslide of your intestines. Picture how it feels when you’re pretending really hard, even though the little ball of nerves in your chest knows the truth.
At one point, Lee leaned over to me and whisper-shouted, “Look at your mom. That woman is a star, and she’ll always be a star.” And it was true, even if her biggest film was years ago. She radiated. She sparkled and air-kissed and got air-kissed and she said slightly shocking things that made people laugh. She held their hands and leaned in to hear them better. She listened like no one else was in that crowded, noisy restaurant. She might not have been in a successful film in eons, and she might have been best known for a scene where she parted her legs and nakedly straddled a man in a suit, but Lee was right.
