American Beauty

by Zoey Dean

  “The hot Spanish guy’s name is Eduardo,” Anna filled in, her tone frosty. She was quickly learning to despise Pashima as much as Sam and Cammie did. Sam had called her the night before, giddy with the news that she and Eduardo were back together. Anna had been thrilled to hear it—almost as thrilled as she’d been to share the word that the weirdness she’d felt with Ben was over. “He’s lucky to be her boyfriend.”

  “Oh, relax, Anna. I was only joking! You’ll see that Pacific Palisades kids don’t bite. Food’s on the second floor, fashion-contest photographer at the first guesthouse, and the band is supposed to start in forty-five minutes. Here’s a schedule and a map, cuz this place is, like, huge.” Pashima pressed a piece of heavy parchment paper into Anna’s hand. “Okay, you two, go have fun!” She was already moving toward a group of girls who had just entered, all of whom wore cheap cotton shorts with faux Fendi scarves twisted into bra tops. “Natalie! Kendall! Madison!”

  Anna and Ben took that as their cue to wander off. The room adjoining the foyer was an art gallery, featuring dozens of late-twentieth-century works from such downtown New York City artists as Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Futura 2000, and Kenny Scharf. Anna could almost hear her mother’s approving cluck-clucks as she checked out one of Rodney Alan Greenblatt’s cartoon-inspired paintings.

  The next room, though—an indoor picnic area with teakwood patio furniture, an actual bubbling spring, and a skylight roof that opened to the second floor—had plenty of action. There were lots of people drinking beer and dancing to Fall Out Boy being piped through a hidden sound system, while waitresses in 1950s carhop uniforms with exceedingly short white skirts circulated with plates of picnic-style foods: tuna sandwiches, hot dogs on buns, plates of potato salad and cole slaw, and actual s’mores. The s’mores made Anna smile—she hadn’t actually eaten one since the summer after seventh grade. Then she heard her name. “Anna. Anna!”

  She turned—Sam was coming toward her, grinning happily, wearing her black stretch pants and fuzzy off-the-shoulder sweater. “I’m so happy, even in this piece-of-shit outfit!” She threw herself into Anna’s arms. Eduardo stood just behind her, gazing at Sam as if she were more precious than all the art in this outsized home. Anna knew that look from Ben—she had missed it so much earlier in the week, when things were so peculiar between them.

  Thank God that’s over.

  “It’s good to see you again, Anna,” Eduardo told her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He wore jeans and a baby-blue T-shirt under a blue Polo; perfectly under-dressed for the occasion. “And thanks again for telling me where Sam was.”

  Sam put her hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Now I get to introduce you to one of the truly great guys in the world. Eduardo, I want you to meet Ben Birnbaum.

  Finally.

  Eduardo stretched out a hand; Ben shook it firmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Ben declared. “You’ve got a great girlfriend.”

  Eduardo put his hands on Sam’s waist. “I know that.”

  Anna recalled Sam telling her how she and Ben had made out at the party after a bat mitzvah once—that Ben was the first boy she had ever French kissed. Funny, the story hadn’t made her jealous then, and it didn’t make her jealous now. It just seemed sweet.

  “What do you think of the place, Anna?” Sam asked. “Have you guys been out back?”

  Anna shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Well, come on. Prepare to be blown away. Who knows? You might even meet the definitely-not-divine Miss Stefanie.”

  Facing north toward Malibu, Anna could see the twinkling lights of communities all the way up the coast to Santa Barbara. There were three aquamarine swimming pools, each one jutting out over the one below it by some miracle of engineering. A five-foot-high waterfall flowed from the third-floor pool into the second-floor pool; another waterfall spilled from that pool into the main pool. Meanwhile, a tiny computer console embedded in the wall was programmed to change the underwater lighting scheme, as well as fire a series of lasers into the waterfalls. Lilies and rose petals floated on the pool surfaces, while beautiful long-haired models dressed as mermaids and mermen sat around the perimeters, fins swishing in the water.

  The rear area teemed with partygoers, and the wait-staff continued the nautical theme, going from group to group with seafood appetizers—jumbo prawns on braised endive leaves, Beluga caviar with fromage blanc, cracked lobster bites wrapped in maple-infused bacon. What these pricey foods had to do with the theme of cheap, Anna had no idea.

  Just beyond the pool, a band was setting up on a portable stage. Anna checked the schedule to determine that this was Goes to Eleven—graduating senior Felicia Finn (“Felicia is a proud member of the Pacific Palisades graduating class whose father wrote Goes to Eleven’s first smash college-radio hit, ‘Inside Doubt’—thanks, Mr. Finn!”) was responsible for the band’s appearance.

  “How excessive,” Anna commented, still scanning the schedule. “Let’s see, we can have our tarot cards read and get henna or real tattoos in the second guesthouse. Swedish massage and reflexology are in the third guesthouse.”

  “That’s nothing,” Ben scoffed. “The United States Olympic women’s gymnastics team is in the home gym giving floor exercise demonstrations.”

  Just as Anna was going to suggest they get some food, a brief but dazzling fireworks display erupted overhead, to oohs and aahs from the crowd. When it was over, a tall girl with blunt-cut platinum-blond hair hurried toward them.

  “Anna! Anna!”

  “Who’s that?” Anna mouthed to Ben.

  “Not a clue,” Ben admitted.

  The girl, though, knew exactly who they were.

  “Anna Percy, right? I’m Stefanie Weinstock. Thanks so much for coming, I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Stefanie took Anna’s hands in hers. She had high cheekbones and a longish face, with slightly too much chin, looking not unlike a much younger version of Cher, if Cher had had her plastic surgery as a teenager. Her lips were absolutely perfect—whether they were natural, plumped up with silicone, or fortified with fat sucked from her butt was impossible to determine—and her eyes were Bambi-esque and honey-colored, with eyelash extensions. She wore a burnt-orange faux-silk sheet wrapped in a complicated fashion that resulted in a pretty authentic-looking sari; and there was a small orange jewel in the middle of her forehead. “You’re even cuter than everyone said you were. I mean it.”

  How to respond to this flattering comment?

  Stefanie gave Anna no chance to respond. “You know that Sam, Cammie, Dee, and I used to be dear friends. Then we moved and lost touch. I’ve missed them so much. This is like a big, happy family reunion.”

  Either this girl was the greatest liar Anna had ever met, or her ability to rewrite history with a straight face was impressive.

  When in doubt, do what the Big Book says.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Anna replied. Before she could introduce Ben, Stefanie was hugging him. “Of course I know who you are. Girls at my school drooled over you. How’s Princeton?”

  “Great.” He extricated himself from her embrace. “Uh, nice party.”

  “Well, Pash and I tried to make it really special for you guys. So listen, Anna. You need to get down to get your photo taken for the contest, because the voting will happen in an hour. Think of it as running for antiprom queen. I heard Sam won at yours. That must have been something. Got your receipts?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Great. Well, tonight it all about making memories,” Stefanie gushed. “So Anna, scoot scoot scoot down to guesthouse one for me, will you? You’re a sweetheart!”

  Anna watched Stefanie rush to another group of kids and embrace them like long-lost family. “My mother has friends so plastic they could rival Barbie. But Stefanie makes them seem genuine.”

  Ben winked at her. “I say we just laugh the whole thing off and cut out of here early.” He brushed some hair from her cheek. “I was thinking of us, alone, a r
oaring fire …”

  “Hopefully in a fireplace.”

  “Hopefully in my fireplace. My parents are still out of town.”

  “Lucky us,” Anna murmured.

  Ben kissed her softly. “No. Lucky me.”

  Anna sighed with happiness. Thank God everything was right between them. As long as she had Ben, she could make it through graduation with both of her parents, her sister, and her sister’s extremely crunchy boyfriend swarming around her.

  No matter how insane it got with her family—and it was bound to get insane, because it always did—Ben would be the calm at the center of the storm.

  “Girlfriend” Material

  “HELLO TO PASHIMA AND STEFANIE’S FRIENDS. ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?” Jett James, the lead singer of Goes to Eleven, posed the challenge to the crowd—the response from the party-goers was deafening as they streamed to the dance floor that that been laid down in front of the stage.

  When the band launched into its monster hit, “Inside Doubt,” Ben couldn’t help but smile: The girls who were usually the epitome of chic were now the epitome of cheap. The ones with a sense of humor had left the price tags attached to their clothes, the 99 Cent Store and Kmart markings flapping in the breeze as they danced.

  Funny how much could change in a year, he mused. Last year he’d had a blast at the version of this party that had been held at the Malibu beach home of an outrageous 1970s glam rocker whose daughter was in Ben’s class. This year, he couldn’t wait for Anna to come back from the bathroom so they could retire to more comfortable quarters.

  Two very soft, small hands clamped down over his eyes. “Guess who?”

  Fuck no, Ben thought. That’s impossible.

  It wasn’t. Blythe launched herself into his arms.

  “Surprise! Glad to see me, lover?”

  “No.” He immediately pulled her hands off of him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing you’re doing. I got invited.” She twirled to show off her outfit; her jet-black hair swished against her high cheekbones. “Like my dress? It’s Yamamoto. I figured since I’m in college I can wear what whatever I wanted.”

  The Yamamoto was a low-cut coral baby doll. She’d paired it with thigh-high melon-and-raspberry suede boots. The combination was devastating.

  Ben didn’t give a shit. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Do I look like I’m laughing? Come on, lighten up, Ben. It’s a party.”

  “I can’t believe you would show up here and—”

  “Ben and Blythe! I knew you two would find each other!” Stefanie came over to them practically on the dead run, shouting to make herself heard over the pounding music.

  “Excuse us a minute,” Ben told Blythe, then took Stefanie’s arm and led her toward the pool and away from the band and Blythe.

  “What’s she doing here?” he asked urgently, once they were out of earshot.

  Stefanie looked hurt. “I invited a bunch of college kids because I thought you and some other people would be more comfortable. My friend Blake Goldenberg who goes to Princeton told me that you guys knew each other.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Ben frowned. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, though he had no more interest in spending time with Blythe at this party than he did in Groundhog Daying his life to repeat his high school graduation experience.

  As Stefanie drifted away, Blythe slid over to Ben again. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You see this isn’t a setup.”

  What could he say? Or do? He felt foolish and more than a little self-absorbed.

  “It’s just that Anna is here.”

  “I hope you two are very happy.”

  One of the wait staff—a guy this time, dressed in 1950s greaser clothes—offered them broiled monkfish hors d’oeuvres. Ben waved him off and peered at Blythe.

  “You’re sure?”

  “What do you want, Ben, a papal blessing?” She tossed her hair back. “You hurt me and you know it. But I’ll live. It wasn’t a fatal wound.”

  Well, that was a relief.

  “We never should have hooked up,” Ben declared fervently. “You can’t imagine how much I regret it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that!”

  “Jesus, Ben. Why don’t you just take a bucket of kosher salt and rub it in? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

  Goes to Eleven launched into a ballad about lost love. Blythe stepped closer, gazing into his eyes. He saw the hurt and knew he’d caused it.

  God, I can be such an asshole.

  “So what is your deal, anyway? You put girls into mental compartments—this one is ‘friend’ material and this one is ‘girlfriend’ material? How did I not rate in the girlfriend box? Not good enough, not hot enough—what was it?”

  “It wasn’t like that, Blythe. You’re gorgeous. The sex was great. But—”

  Fucking bloody hell.

  Ben froze midsentence. He’d seen a flash of wheat-colored hair and beige faux-silk out of the corner of his eye, and knew—without moving a muscle, he knew, because that was just how life worked—that Anna Percy had overheard his last sentence. If ever there was a moment when he craved an earthquake that would swallow him whole, it was now.

  He turned slightly. Anna’s face was ghostly white.

  “Anna,” he whispered.

  She shrank away, tears of betrayal hanging in her eyes. Then she fled.

  Just Sex Buddies

  “How could anyone seriously wear this more than once?” Sam asked Eduardo. She scratched her stomach under the itchy red MegaMart sweater—the cheap material had actually given her a nasty case of the hives.

  “I promise to take it off as soon as possible,” Eduardo murmured into her shiny dark hair. They stood in line at guesthouse one, where a photographer was taking pictures of the competitors in the cheap-threads competition, while his assistant was carefully checking each girl’s receipts to insure that no one had cheated.

  Jasmine Eckels—one of the weenies whom Sam had helped to save the Beverly Hills High School prom—had just been photographed in a sheer hot pink baby doll nightie/G-string combination, with a sleazy black bra underneath. With her was tall, thin Ophelia Berman, the other main prom organizer, who wore what looked like a cheap green army camouflage rain poncho tied just over the bust.

  The prom weenies had already hugged Sam like a long-lost best friend—only because Sam was in a fog of love did she suffer the embraces. Okay. She had learned during prom prep that Jazz and Fee weren’t all that bad. But it was one thing to work with the prom weenies, and quite another to befriend them.

  “Good luck, Sam!” Jasmine called as she finished. “You won prom queen; maybe you’ll win this, too!”

  “And I’ll be here to see it if she does,” Eduardo quipped, rubbing Sam’s back.

  “Next,” the photographer’s assistant called, and Sam gave her an envelope full of receipts as she stepped in front of the photographic backdrop—a wall-size mural of Pacific Palisades High. Truth was, she was irritated at herself. No way was her piece-of-shit red-sweater-and-black-pants outfit going to beat some of the outfits she’d seen, especially some of the skimpier ones from the girls at PPHS. One PPHS girl was walking around in a black string bikini that she’d purchased in Thailand for the baht equivalent of five bucks.

  “Name?” the assistant asked.

  “Sam—”

  “Sharpe,” the middle-aged photographer filled in, smiling for the first time since Sam had seen him. Three digital cameras hung around his neck and bounced against his substantial paunch. “Tell your dad that Stan Mackey sends his regards—I did some publicity stills for Ben-Hur.” Then he fired off two quick pictures with two different cameras, explaining to Sam that the second shot was for insurance in case there was a problem with his camera’s media card. From here, all the photos would be printed and posted in the Skylight
Room, an open space on the third floor of the main house, where all the high school partygoers would vote for the best cheap outfit. Dark purple ink on a finger would prevent double voting.

  It was hokey, yes, and it did remind Sam of the vote for prom queen. But being prom queen didn’t mean she could make Stefanie her slave for a day; being queen of the cheap threads meant she could. It was unnatural, and it was silly, but she found herself wishing desperately that she would win tonight.

  “Dance?” Eduardo asked as they reached a wide space on the red brick path that led to the various guest cottages.

  “Definitely.”

  There was no dance floor, but Sam didn’t care. She swayed in Eduardo’s arms. “I missed you so much,” he confessed.

  “That feeling was mutual,” she whispered, running her fingers through the back of his cropped dark hair.

  “Sam, hi!”

  Sam turned. Dee and Jack were coming down the path hand in hand. “Having fun?”

  “Sure.” Sam noted that Dee’s hair was smashed to her head in the back, as if she’d been rubbing it into a carpet. Her lipstick was gone too. She smiled knowingly. “And where have you two been?”

  “Oh, they’re doing some repairs in one of the cabanas,” Dee explained, waving a hand vaguely back toward the pool. “We found an empty one.”

  Sam had to smile. It was so good to see Dee happy and healthy.

  “I’m going to get my picture taken. We’ll see you guys back at the house.” Dee and Jack started down the path to guesthouse one.

  “They are in love,” Eduardo noted.

  “Well, at least in lust. How do you know the difference?”

  “One only makes the other better.”

  Sam shivered deliciously. “Maybe we should track down that cabana.”

  Eduardo shook his head. “I want you in a proper bed. With time and privacy and all the luxury you deserve, Samantha.”

  “Works for me. Let’s go join the party, then.”

  But they didn’t make much progress up to the main house before Anna came barreling toward them, eyes on the brick path, oblivious to anyone and anything.