“Oh, no,” Lizzie corrected him. “I volunteered to serve there as a way to get back together with Dan,” she said, sounding slightly ashamed.
The information stung Buck like a bee. She was trying to get back together with that jerk? What about him?? What about their moment in the kitchen last weekend?!? The blister on his foot where Lizzie had spilled coffee on him was still tender and he thought about it with every step he took—although he probably would have even if his foot were fine.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it,” Tiffany said in between bites, “but the new girlfriend is a good thing.”
Buck agreed wholeheartedly. A new girlfriend meant that Lizzie and Dan would not be getting back together, but before he could figure out words to sound sympathetic and not thrilled about this, Tiffany had a thought.
“He has to rebound to realize what a good thing he had with you.”
“You think?” Lizzie said, sounding vulnerable.
Anger swelled up through Buck. This Dan guy didn’t realize how great he had had it.
“Absolutely,” Tiffany confirmed. “Don’t you think, Buck?”
Caught with half a sausage link in his mouth, Buck mumbled, “I guess,” without taking his eyes off his plate. The breakfast was much better than Mug’s or Denny’s. The eggs were well cooked, the sausage not too greasy, and the pancakes some of the best Buck had tasted since he used to live at home. Unfortunately, he couldn’t really enjoy it because the knowledge that Elizabeth was trying to get back together with her ex-boyfriend ruined it for him. He thought his luck with this girl had finally changed—that she was available—and through Tiffany he had a good excuse to see her. The news of her hopeful reunion with Dan added a whole new scenario to the options in Buck’s head.
Another factor that Buck wasn’t sure how to deal with came up when the three arrived back at Elizabeth’s apartment, stomachs painfully full of pancakes. Elizabeth’s lawyer, Courtney, was waiting outside for them. Seeing her sitting on the first step of the apartment with her tanned legs stretched out in the sun and a rhinestoned cell phone on her ear gave the huge breakfast sitting in Buck’s stomach an unwelcome lurch. It was unclear how long Courtney had been there, but it had been long enough that she had removed her orange rubber flip-flops and pulled her wide-legged pants up around her knees. She had a clear plastic cup half full of a frozen coffee drink by her side. When she saw them walking toward her, she quickly flipped her phone shut and stood up.
“Where have you guys been?” she asked, sounding slightly annoyed but trying to cover it with cheerfulness.
“Du-Pars,” Tiffany answered innocently, “but we didn’t see a single celebrity,” she added, voicing the disappointment she had been voicing during the entire drive home from the coffee shop.
Buck didn’t say a word but surveyed the situation on edge. He had thought the “new Lizzie” was through trying to get out of her role as Tiffany’s guardian. Was he foolish to believe that because she hadn’t raised the issue last weekend in Victory she had accepted it?
“Buck,” Courtney said stepping toward him, and he stiffened, “you should have called me when you got into town!”
Before he could answer, she was putting her arms around him and kissing him at the very top of his neck, almost at his jawbone. It was a very nice place to be kissed and only added to Buck’s confusion, not to mention the stifled snort of laughter coming from Lizzie as she searched through her purse for the keys to the apartment.
“Uh, sorry,” he mustered, desperately wanting to ask why he should have called her.
Buck glanced over at Tiffany, who seemed as relaxed with Courtney’s appearance as Lizzie did, and he wondered what was going on. If Elizabeth and Courtney had been plotting to ditch Tiffany all week, wouldn’t the teenager have caught on?
Without pausing to acknowledge or accept his half-assed apology, Courtney continued, “So, what’s on the agenda today?”
“The beach!” Tiffany answered excitedly.
Buck knew just how excited she was because almost every time they had talked during the week (which had been almost every day) she had mentioned that they were going to the beach on Saturday. She was definitely picturing the day to be straight out of an episode of The OC.
Courtney soared right over Tiffany’s response and continued her own dialogue. “Cause here’s what I was thinking. I’ll take Buck to do a little L.A. sightseeing.” She turned to him and half whispered as though sharing a juicy secret, “I’m one of the few born and raised,” then returned to her normal tone. “And then maybe we’ll meet up with you guys for some dinner. We’ll see how the day is going.”
Buck wanted desperately to protest, but he actually found himself speechless. Before he could coordinate the words, Lizzie gave an amused-looking grin and said, “Sure, whatever.” She then turned and looked at Tiffany, who also had an amused grin on her face. Buck felt duped—how could he have been so blind? Lizzie was trying to set him up with her friend. Another scenario he had not planned for.
“Well, I was kind of looking forward to the beach,” Buck admitted. He had been…both spending time at the ocean and spending time with Tiffany, but mostly spending time with Lizzie.
“Well, maybe there’ll be a little beach on our tour,” Courtney said seductively, and Buck felt firmly wedged between a rock and a hard place. His whole life getting women had been ridiculously easy—except for the one woman he really wanted! He looked longingly at Lizzie. She caught his gaze and returned it with an adorable smile. Then Courtney took him by the arm, the same way she had when she took him out to “discuss” Lizzie’s legal case, and led him out of the apartment.
30
The weekend went fast—ridiculously faster than usual—and before I know it, it is Monday morning and I am getting ready to report for the jury duty that I had volunteered for and now dreaded. The excited anticipation with which I went into the courthouse on Friday is gone. Instead, I feel hopeless and more than a little disappointed. Although Tiffany had insisted, and Courtney had agreed, that any relationship Dan might be having with Defender Bitch was inconsequential, I still feel let down and, if nothing else, that this speed bump on the road to my happiness will cause a delay.
I pull on a pair of black gaucho pants and (having learned from my mistake last week) a light pink cashmere sweater, despite the hot summer day the weather report is predicting, and sweep my hair into a high ponytail since I decide not to bother washing it. Armed with my copy of Hillary’s autobiography, a book which I now feel a great and inexplicable animosity toward—combined with an unstoppable compulsion to read every last page—I head to the courthouse.
As I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Wilshire I look down at Hillary, smiling up boldly, almost smugly, at me. Her husband cheated on her with a fat intern and her marriage survived! Hillary certainly didn’t let anything stand in her way of achieving her life goals…look at her today, a senator from New York and still married. If the Clintons could work through such a humiliating scandal, Dan and I could certainly work out our little spat—and his potential affair with Defender Bitch. I just hope it’s an affair without “sexual relations” like the one the president had…the thought drives me to snort with sarcastic laughter. In my limited encounters, Dan is definitely the least adventurous person in the bedroom. I definitely (probably) don’t have a problem with that, but the thought of his venturing to insert anything into a woman besides his own well-covered penis is a laugh.
As soon as I arrive at the courthouse I notice a problem. Gone are the subzero temperatures of my previous visit…inside, the building is swelteringly hot. I sweat through the lobby, up the elevator, and into the courtroom, where all of my fellow jurors are loosening collars and fanning themselves with any loose pieces of paper they can find. My cashmere sweater is sticking to my skin and starting to itch horribly. All I have under it is an extremely thin camisole, and perhaps the only thing that could drive me to remove the sweater and bare so much of my bony body is i
f the garment were actually on fire—and I’d probably try to extinguish the flames before I resorted to removing the sweater. Miserable, I sit down, careful to avoid eye contact with either Dan or Defender Bitch.
Minutes that feel like hours later, the bailiff makes his Rusty Burrell announcement and we all rise for Judge Santos. The Judge, still in his black robe but looking even grouchier than before, with sweat glistening at his temples and above his lip, quickly takes his seat and orders the rest of the room to do the same.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that our air-conditioning seems to have gone on the fritz,” he announces to the room. His statement is met with groans of agreement. “Luckily for all of you,” he says motioning to the fourteen of us crammed together in the jury box, “over the weekend, the parties in this case were able to reach a settlement and therefore your services are not needed.”
There is a moment of confusion during which we all look around at each other, unsure of what to do. Is it like being dismissed early from high school math? Do you just grab your stuff and run like hell in fear that the teacher will remember another equation that needs solving?
“You are all free to go,” Judge Santos says, answering our question.
Elated to be released from the burning inferno of hell that is the courtroom, I quickly rise and am one of the first jurors out of the room and the building. It is only as I step outside into the summer heat that feels cool in comparison with the courthouse that I realize what the judge said—a settlement was reached over the weekend. Dan and Defender Bitch spent the weekend together. Not only that, but they must have broken the judge’s rule about not discussing the case. I have a flashing drive to return to Judge Santos’s courtroom and rat Dan and DB out, but I stop. Not only does the mere thought of returning to the courthouse induce the beginning of a heatstroke, but it is still my intention to get back together with Dan, and getting him fired could make that trickier than it already is.
I shake the image of Dan and DB entangled in the navy blue sheets that I selected for him and focus on Tiffany and Courtney’s insistence that this rebound fling is a good thing. I slide into my car and quickly remove the sweater. Being almost naked in my own car is embarrassing, but it’s something I can deal with given the current temperature. As I speed away from the courthouse toward my office, I turn on my phone and command, “Work,” into the voice-activated speed dial that immediately connects me to Hope.
“Hope, it’s me. My case settled and I was excused. I’m on my way in,” I tell her, feeling relief that I’ll be able to put some more time and effort into my career while I still have one.
“Elizabeth, we’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Renee had a hiking accident over the weekend and is stuck in bed with her leg in traction. The studio wants you to anchor the show,” she says, trying to deliver the information impartially but letting her own excitement be heard.
“Oh my God, me…really?” I ask, feeling sick to my stomach and glancing in the rearview mirror and my unwashed and now extremely sweaty ponytail.
“They want you,” Hope replies, and I can tell from her voice that she is smiling.
This is the moment I have waited for my entire life…I desperately wish I could smile as well.
31
I fight the traffic across town, hitting every possible light. My heart is racing, and playing over and over in my head are Hope’s words, “The studio wants you to anchor the show.” In my mind I have continually justified my demeaned existence on The Renee Foster Show! by telling myself that the limited on-air time I was receiving would be my springboard for bigger and better things. I don’t think I ever really believed it until this very second. After all that I have put in, it is finally happening. I look over at Hillary’s autobiography and suddenly feel a sense of camaraderie with the former first lady. We were both screwed over by the men we loved and both went on to achieve great things in our careers. I smile at her before once again commanding my cell phone to dial Hope.
“Traffic is horrible, as always,” I inform her as soon as she answers the phone.
“How far away are you?” she asks, urgency in her voice.
“I think probably fifteen minutes,” I answer hopefully. It’ll take fifteen minutes if I could possibly make one green light between my current location and my office driveway.
“That’s okay,” she says exhaling audibly. “Taping is set to begin in an hour. As soon as you get here you’ll go straight into hair and makeup. I’ll have all the show notes waiting for you down there. I’m also going to put you on a call with Renee to go over her segment—you are going to do a live-via-satellite interview with Renee from her hospital bed.”
That bitch…she can’t just lie back and die quietly, can she? I have to roll my eyes at the thought that she thinks people actually care about her and her stupid leg. They watch the show to see the celebrities. I can see that, why can’t she? It’s hard to believe that Renee was ever any sort of legitimate journalist. I shake it off…it doesn’t matter. How much of the show could she possibly demand be devoted to her? It will still be considerably more air time than I have ever had. I disconnect my call with Hope and focus on relaxing my racing heart before getting to work.
It’s hard to relax, though—this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. I have to share it with someone. I pick up the phone and think about whom to call first. Dan? (Probably not a good idea.) Courtney? Tiffany? My mother? I scroll through the short list of numbers in my phone’s address book and immediately know whom to call. I press the button and then listen to three rings before I hear a gruff “Hello?”
“Buck, you’ll never guess what’s happening to me.” I tell him, and for some inexplicable reason I feel a second, separate surge of excitement to be talking to Buck Platner. It must just be the excitement of telling another person about the show, I reason, but I’m really happy to be talking to him even though it’s been less than twenty-four hours since we’ve seen each other. Courtney held him captive most of the weekend, but Tiffany and I did get to spend little bits of time with him here and there.
“What?” he asks and the gruffness is completely gone from his deep voice.
“Renee broke her leg hiking and I’m going to host the show!” I say, hardly able to believe it’s the truth.
Something about his response—a totally generic, “That’s phenomenal”—melts my heart. Why is Buck Platner’s opinion melting my heart? Why did I even call him? By the time I pull up to the studio, though, I’m still talking to him, and I’m feeling completely relaxed and even confident. Something about talking to Buck makes me feel like the best version of myself. I’m not usually confident with men, but for some reason, with him, none of my normal insecurities come up.
“Maybe I’ll bring Tiffany up to Victory this weekend. I think she’s missing her friends. Maybe I’ll see you?” I say, without even meaning to. I have never in my entire life volunteered a return to Victory.
“That would be great,” he says, and my heart does the weird melting thing again.
We hang up and I quickly park in my assigned spot, which is about halfway across the parking lot. I hurry into the building and go straight to the hair and makeup room, which is really just a station in the hallway behind the set.
As soon as Marcela sees me she says, “Let’s get to work,” and I sit in the seat. “She’s here!” Marcela calls over her shoulder, and Carly, the hairdresser, comes rushing up with her tool belt of brushes, sprays, and curling irons around her waist.
“What the hell happened to your hair?” she asks with disgust before even laying a hand on me.
“I didn’t know this was happening today,” I explain.
She removes the thin elastic band that held my greasy hair up and makes a disappointed sound as my locks fall limply to my shoulders. “It’s actually not as bad as Renee’s,” she says quietly and gets right to work.
Before I have the chance or the ability, since it seems there has been
a mascara wand in my eye since the second I sat down, to let Hope know I’ve arrived, she appears next to me. Apparently Marcela’s announcement made its way all the way upstairs.
“Okay, Elizabeth.” She gives me an entire rundown on what Renee’s situation is and what I’m going to be doing. Before she can finish, the show’s executive producer comes up to me. I can’t actually see him approach since my eyes are still closed, but I hear his voice and jump slightly.
“Remember to be still,” Marcela scolds.
“Elizabeth,” Ryan, the executive producer begins, “the studio is determined to have you anchor, so try not to fuck up too much.”
“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically, careful not to move any part of my face as I speak. Ryan’s not a bad guy; he’s just extremely focused on sucking up to Renee as much as is humanly possible. He actually has quite a talent for it. I’m positive that, like Renee, he doesn’t think there is any way on earth that I am anywhere near capable enough to fill her shoes. The quandary that he must be finding himself in is that while Renee treats him like her personal bitch, he actually works for the studio and therefore has to put the show before his own feelings. I’ve never been positive if Ryan is straight and wants to be with Renee or gay and wants to be Renee. I don’t know if Ryan himself is even sure.
Personal annoyances aside, he does do a thorough job of preparing me to host the show. He goes over every second of air time—the opening monologue, which has been written on large cue cards that I simply have to read; the first satellite interview with Renee; the celebrity interviews (both followed by satellite interviews with Renee); and the closing monologue. He actually makes it sound simple. He will be in the producers’ booth the entire time, connected to me via a tiny piece of equipment that will be in my ear, and the director will be onstage with me to make sure things go okay.
The voice from above booms, “FIVE MINUTES,” just as Marcela says, “Okay, I think we’re done.”
Not Quite A mom Page 16
