All Night Long

by Melody Mayer

  Once again, for my great-grandfather— nemesis of his writers!

  Kiley McCann

  Kiley McCann stood just outside the massive doors of the Bel Air High School gym in Los Angeles—a facility that rivaled the size of, say, Madison Square Garden—and scanned the monstrous crowd for her friends. Her heart beat a tattoo in her chest and she felt her stomach cramping; she had to keep reminding herself to breathe in, breathe out, as she clenched the manila “Welcome, New Student!” packet in her sweaty hands.

  Nothing was physically wrong with her. It wasn't even one of the panic attacks to which her mother was remarkably susceptible. Instead, this was an old-fashioned-if-massive case of nerves, brought on by orientation for senior year at the snootiest public school—Bel Air High—in the snootiest section of Los Angeles— Bel Air.

  What, she had to ask herself, was an oh-so-average seventeen-year-old girl from La Crosse, Wisconsin, doing here?

  As she unconsciously nibbled the inside of her lower lip, an annoying habit she'd had since before she could remember, and felt her Converse All Stars rooted to the tile floor, even she had to admit that the events that had brought her to this place at this moment were mind-boggling.

  The audition in Milwaukee for a reality TV show, to be the nanny to the children of the rock star Platinum. The reality show getting canceled and her getting the gig anyway. Platinum getting arrested for child endangerment—could a rock star abusing drugs and alcohol in front of her children be any bigger of a cliché? And now, a chance to attend high school in California, and actually qualify for resident tuition to one of the California state universities, of which the Scripps Institution of Oceanography was by far her first choice for—

  “Kiley!”

  Lydia Chandler pushed her way through the masses of arriving students and threw her arms around Kiley. Suddenly, Kiley's nerves dropped to a manageable level, and she felt her heart rate return almost to normal as she looked into her blond friend's green eyes. They were shining. “Isn't this exciting?”

  “Exciting” wasn't exactly the first adjective that came to Ki-ley's mind. “Scary.” “Intimidating.” Yep. Those worked. Lydia, on the other hand, never seemed to be afraid of anything. But maybe that's what growing up deep in the Amazon basin did for a girl. Kiley had met more than a few Bel Air rich girls over the summer, mostly at the tony Brentwood Hills Country Club. Lydia had told her that in Amazonia, she'd become quite accomplished with poison blow darts. Rich girls in L.A. didn't have poison darts. They had poison barbs that left you feeling just as wounded, but at least they didn't kill more than your spirit.

  Like Kiley, Lydia was a nanny. Kiley knew that Lydia's route out of Amazonia and its piranha-infested waters to Beverly Hills to work for her aunt, Kat Carpenter, and Kat's lover, Anya Kuriakova, had been nearly as strange as her own. Kat was a former tennis pro turned TV sports commentator. She and Anya had had two children, Jimmy and Martina, by artificial insemination. Before she'd gone to the Amazon, Lydia had been a rich girl in Houston. She never tired of saying how the Beverly Hills life pleased her much more than life in the rain forest.

  As students streamed past them into the gym, Kiley took in Lydia's naturally platinum blond hair; immense, expressive eyes; and lithe, slender body. She was clad in a very short Nanette Lepore trapeze shift in black with white polka dots, pale pink Chanel ballet flats covering her tiny feet. Kiley had been there when Lydia found the outfit at Hot Threads, the new designer “preworn” clothing store on Melrose. It was amazing. Her friend had a fantastic knack for dressing rich on a nanny's modest salary.

  Damn. If I looked like Lydia, maybe I wouldn't feel so insecure.

  For this all-important day, Kiley had dressed in a variation on a theme in her usual carpenter pants and a navy T-shirt. Her chestnut-reddish hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It hadn't occurred to her to do more for a school orientation. But as the people who would be her new classmates strode past her, she saw that Bel Air High girls had never met a fashion designer they couldn't acquire. Her own outfit seemed downright janitorial by comparison.

  “I am so danged jazzed, I could just give birth,” Lydia said. When she got excited, the Southern accent she'd acquired from living in Texas for the first several years of her life increased exponentially. That was back in the B.B., as Lydia called it— Before Banishment to a mud hut in a small hamlet of primitive Amarakaire tribesmen. How primitive? They hadn't yet developed a written language.

  “It's just high school,” Kiley pointed out, knowing that Lydia hadn't been in any kind of classroom other than home school since she was eight; her aunt had pulled some strings to get her into this one. Kiley, on the other hand, had spent ninth through eleventh grades at La Crosse High School, a low-slung redbrick architectural monstrosity a mile from the small house in which she'd been born and raised—with its ragged carpeting and a TV set that was broken half the time.

  That her father worked for a brewery—Kiley had actually grown up in the shadow of the six-pack-painted water tower for that brewery—and her mother was a waitress at a diner did not make her stand out in any way at her old school. She knew a lot of kids who were in the same socioeconomic boat. Here at Bel Air, though, it didn't take a National Merit Scholar to figure out that her modest working-class background would make her endangered-species-level odd among her classmates.

  At the computer in her guesthouse at Platinum's mansion, Kiley had read everything she could about this school to prepare for today. One of its claims to fame was that the median family income of its students was higher than those of Beverly Hills High School and Pacific Palisades High. Another distinction was that it had produced fourteen Oscar nominees over the past ten years. One more notable item was prom. She'd read through last year's online prom issue of the school newspaper— the BAB as it was called, the Bel Air Buzz—that prom night at BAHS had cost in the low five figures. Per couple. The most sought-after prom after-party, instead of something as banal as a get-together in someone's basement or even a hotel room at the Ramada Inn, had involved a private jet to a private island in the Caribbean.

  Kiley looked down resignedly at her T-shirt. Too bad there hadn't been a copy of the unofficial dress code online.

  “Esme! Hey!”

  Lydia put two fingers in her pouty lips and blew a shrill but very effective whistle in the direction of their other good friend—also a Hollywood nanny—Esme Castaneda. Esme, who had just walked into the gym foyer, swung her head and waved, tossing her glossy dark raven hair in the process.

  Of course, two dozen other people who'd heard Lydia's whistle swung their heads as well. But Kiley noted that Lydia didn't seem to mind at all. She was too busy motioning for Esme to join them.

  “Y'all, how fun is this?” Lydia threw a slim arm around Esme's shoulder. Esme didn't return the gesture. That was no shocker, since Kiley had come to know her as restrained in public and constantly wary of the overprivileged and exceedingly white world in which she operated.

  Esme had been raised in the tough Echo Park neighborhood of L.A. Her parents were the undocumented Latina maid and even less documented Latino gardener for the überpowerful television producer Steven Goldhagen and his wife, Diane. When Diane returned from a trip to South America at the beginning of the summer with twin six-year-old girls she'd adopted spur-of-the-moment in Cali, Colombia (it was becoming increasingly popular for L.A.'s rich and famous to adopt kids this way), Esme had been hired to be the family nanny.

  The move made sense. The twins—quickly renamed Easton and Weston—spoke no English. Diane spoke no Spanish. Esme was fluent in both languages. It was a perfect match.

  “Students, please take seats in the bleachers,” a melodious voice boomed over the school's sound system, loud enough to penetrate into
the hall and bounce off the freshly painted walls. “If you would please take seats in the bleachers so that we can begin.”

  “That's our cue.”

  Kiley felt Lydia link her arm through hers as she led the way into the gymnasium. At first glance, it was more sports arena than gym. It featured a Jumbotron above the basketball court, the usual banners proclaiming past athletic triumphs and local advertisements, but unlike the seats at La Crosse, these bleachers were comfortably padded in the school colors of royal blue and white.

  Kiley and her friends found places on the bottom row, even as kids knowingly streamed past them to jockey for the highest seats. Evidently higher was better. A trio of girls who looked as if they'd just stepped out of a Teen Vogue photo spread—thin, gorgeous, and perfect, clad in designer everything—brushed past them, trendily blasé and bored, regarding Kiley and her friends as if they were accident victims.

  But then, the eyes swung back almost immediately to zero in on Lydia. In what must have been some kind of privileged Bel Air mind meld, the three girls all flashed flawless smiles at Kiley's friend.

  Kiley might not have been familiar with the Bel Air mind-set quite yet, but she knew that smile. It said: “You exist. You're hot enough. Your two friends? Ugh!”

  Had Esme noticed? Esme was beautiful by anyone's standards, with caramel skin and lush curves. She wore tight black trousers, red strappy heels, and a bright red tank top that showed her athletic shoulders. But Kiley realized that there were just a handful of brown-skinned kids in the entire gym.

  “F them,” Esme muttered.

  Oh. Okay. She had noticed.

  “If I could have your attention?”

  A woman of indeterminate age (a description Kiley had decided was common in this world of cosmetic surgery and Botox) with streaky blunt-cut shoulder-length dark hair, clad in a taupe suit that fitted her as if it had been spray-painted on, stood on the gym floor at a microphone. She waited for her students; Kiley had learned from her Internet research that there were 640 of them. This was a reasonably big crowd to settle down, and it took quite a while for calm to prevail.

  “I'm Mrs. Kwan, principal of Bel Air High, and I want to welcome all of you incoming seniors to our school. We offer a special welcome to a few new students, as well as to the student buddies who will be showing you around today.”

  Kiley turned and glanced up the high bleachers at the three girls who had dissed them earlier. They were about ten rows up. One was talking on her Razr, another was busily applying numerous coats of lip gloss, and the third was flirting with a cute guy next to her. Esme followed Kiley's gaze and looked too.

  “Watch, they'll end up being our escorts,” Esme whispered.

  “I hope not.”

  “That's the way this shit works.” Esme rolled her eyes and both girls looked back toward the gym floor, where Mrs. Kwan cleared her throat.

  “I'd like to remind the entire student body to refer to me as Mrs. Kwan, not Ms. Kwan. It's a family tradition. Thank you.

  “Are we ready for Evan Pace, incoming president of the senior class, to say a few words?”

  The assembled students applauded politely as a tall guy in a royal blue varsity jacket strode to the mike. He had buzz-cut brown hair and a winning smile, and reminded Kiley way too much of Justin Timberlake. A few girls whistled from the back of the gym, and Evan smiled and waved confidently. Then he said all the usual welcoming things before he added a special announcement.

  “So you guys who are new need to know about the kickoff senior-year event that's a tradition here at BAHS.” He flashed his patented winning smile again. “It's not an official school event, so I'd better not tell you about the Up All Night party.”

  Around the gym, those in the know laughed, even Mrs. Kwan.

  “Be sure to ask your escort about it. It's what being a senior is all about.”

  “Thank you, Evan,” the principal said, quickly taking the microphone again. She introduced a dozen teachers, talked about various classes and clubs, then asked all the new students to take their blue and white name tags from their welcome packets and put them on.

  “Your escort will find you. She or he will take you on a quick tour, introduce you to some people, answer your questions, and welcome you to our school. And of course, the door to my office is always open.”

  “Except when it's closed!” a voice boomed out from the top of the bleachers.

  “Thank you, Chaz. Glad to see you made it through the summer,” Mrs. Kwan fired back through the laughter and titters. Meanwhile, the students took this exchange as a signal that the main affair had ended, and rose noisily. Kiley fished out her name tag and found that it was nearly the size of her hand. Well, it wouldn't be hard for her escort to find her. She'd be the one looking like a total geek.

  KILEY MCCANN LA CROSSE, WISCONSIN

  Great. Why couldn't they just write on it: CHEESEHEAD LOSER.

  Still, she peeled off the plastic backing and stuck the tag to her T-shirt. Lydia put on her own name tag, chortling about her hometown of Amazonia like it was a badge of honor. As for Esme, she didn't don hers at all.

  “Name tag?” Kiley asked.

  Esme frowned. “It says I'm from Echo Park. Everyone will decide I'm a gangbanger. If they haven't decided that already.”

  Kiley knew the neighborhood Esme was from very well. She'd even lived there briefly when things had gone south at Platinum's house. That was when Platinum's sister and brother-in-law had come from San Diego to be the legal guardians of the kids while Platinum was awaiting trial.

  Echo Park was heavily Latino, heavily poor, and known for its gangs. It was fifteen miles and several million light-years from Bel Air.

  “Maybe they'll be scared of you,” Lydia pointed out. “That could work. Fear is a great motivator.”

  Kiley peered at Lydia to see if she was serious. Apparently, she was.

  Suddenly, a gorgeous girl stepped between her and Lydia. She had stick-straight, glossy chestnut hair, huge blue eyes, and dimples. Her outfit looked like it had been designed especially for her: maroon pants so tight that they left little to the imagination, and a white silk tank top that did the same. Beside her were two friends, equally as close to perfection as anyone could be in real life. The amazing thing was, they weren't even the three girls who'd been so snotty. They were just their spiritual clones.

  “Oh, fabulous, you're mine!” girl number one squealed at Lydia. “I'm Staci.”

  Staci's two friends introduced themselves as Amber and Zona—Amber of the dark eyes and strawberry blond razor-cut bob, Zona as blond as Lydia—with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  “So, you guys are friends, right?” Staci asked, brushing her hair with meticulously manicured fingers. The baby blue python purse she carried on her arm had the entwined C's logo that marked it as a Chanel bag, and was nearly as big as she was.

  “How did you know?” Kiley asked.

  Zona smiled. “We went through all the forms for the new seniors. You know how it asked, ‘Who do you know in the senior class at BAHS?’ You guys all put down each other.”

  “We thought it would be fun for us to take you around,” Staci concluded. “Since we're best friends. Come on, follow us.”

  The six of them headed out of the gym and down a plush carpeted hallway that led to the center of the school. The ceiling was high, and shiny clean posters were posted on various parts of the walls. The school was shaped like the letter X, Staci explained, with an indoor/outdoor central area and four wings extending from there. There were three stories, and the organization was simple: administration, arts, library, and gym on the bottom; humanities on the second floor; sciences on the top.

  The tour was heady. The school was gorgeous. Everything looked new and expensive and airbrushed. There was even a full-fledged oceanography laboratory that made Kiley's heart skip a beat.

  “How do you guys know each other?” Zona asked. She was skittering along in heels so high that her legs, in skinny jeans,
looked twig-like.

  “It's so fabulous, we're all nannies,” Lydia gushed, before Kiley could even think about stopping her. “I work for my aunt and take care of my niece and nephew, Esme works for Steven and Diane Goldhagen—you know, the producer?—and Kiley works for Platinum. Or at least she did until Platinum got arrested and went into rehab.”

  If it was possible for a Latina girl to pale, Kiley figured that was exactly what Esme was doing. She was a very private person, unlikely to blurt out her personal business to anyone, much less to these three girls. Lydia, on the other hand, seemed to have no verbal censor at all.

  They made their way back to the central rotunda, which featured a glass-fronted office with white and blue leather couches that looked as though they had never been sat on. Next to that, in the outdoor garden area, were several round tables, each with eight seats, surrounded by a riot of exotic flowers.

  Staci raked her hair off her face and squinted at Esme. “You guys are going to this school because you, like, work in Bel Air?”

  Esme looked the girl up and down with her best Echo Park sneer. “You got a problem with that, chica?”

  Staci was not intimidated.

  “No, chica,” she shot back with a sneer. “I do have a problem with your outfit, because it's, like, tacky. But if that's how you want to present yourself—”

  “Y'all listen up,” Lydia interrupted. “We're getting off on the wrong foot.” She pointed at Staci. “You dress how you want— love your outfit, by the way—and Esme will dress how she wants. Dissing a girl you don't even know—that's tacky.”

  “She's right,” Zona agreed. “Besides, maybe that's how girls dress in Echo Park.”

  “So, what's this Up All Night thing that Evan talked about?” Kiley asked. It seemed a propitious moment to change the subject.

  “Evan,” Staci repeated, and sighed as if saying the name of her favorite food, then wagged a playful finger at Lydia. “He is so hot. Watch out. He always tries to bag the hottest new girl.”

  “That's such an interesting expression, ‘to bag,’ ” Lydia mused. “Where I come from, it usually refers to a wild boar.”