California Girls!

by Ann M. Martin

  “Let’s go skating first!” said Kristy as soon as we had parked the car and entered the mall. I was glad she sounded enthusiastic.

  So we did. We rented skates and began whizzing around the rink that was on the lowest level of the mall. As I glided along, I looked up.

  “Whoa,” I said softly. The mall stretched above us, level after level. It was definitely the biggest mall I’d ever been in.

  When we got tired of skating, we played video games. Then Dawn wanted to look at shoes, but Kristy and Jeff said they were starving, so Carol decided we should eat before we did any shopping.

  “My treat,” she added, and led us into a health-food restaurant. This, of course, made Dawn, Jeff, and Carol look like they were in heaven. Kristy and I had to search around to find stuff we could eat, but finally we had all been served and were eating happily. (Oh, okay. Dawn didn’t look too happy. This was because Carol was talking a lot, I think, but we ate our meal without any actual bloodshed.)

  And then … and then … Carol paid the check, and I cried, “I’m going to the makeup counters! Meet you at the main entrance in an hour.” I didn’t give Kristy or Dawn a chance to say, “But Mallory, you’re not allowed to wear makeup.” I just rushed off. I could hear Carol call, “Okay!” so I knew the plans were all right.

  I had passed the makeup counters on the way up to the restaurant from the video parlors, so I knew right where to go. When I reached the third level, I gasped.

  Surrounding me were lip gloss, eyeliner, mascara, blusher, nail polish, hand and face cream, powder, and more. An entire floor’s worth of cosmetics.

  I was standing at a counter, gazing longingly at some lipstick, when a saleswoman said, “May I help you?”

  To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure if she could help me or not. I am definitely not allowed to wear makeup. On the other hand, I was three thousand miles away from my parents. And I wanted to fit in, to be a California girl, to look like some of the girls I’d seen on the beach. If I wore makeup for the next nine or ten days, how would Mom and Dad know?

  So I said to the woman, trying to sound very adult, “Yes, thank you. I need a complete make-over.”

  The woman’s eyes lit up. “Come sit on this stool,” she said, motioning over the counter. (I sat.) Then she examined my face with a flashlight. A flashlight. “Hmm. Not bad,” she said slowly. “Not bad at all.”

  “Can you cover up my freckles?” I asked.

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Can you dye my hair blonde?”

  “What?” The woman looked startled. Then she said, “I suppose so. I mean, you could dye your hair…. How old are you?”

  “Eleven,” I replied.

  “How about trying wash-out dye? That way, if your par — I mean, if you don’t like it, you could wash it out. Your natural color would return.”

  “Great!” I said. I’d been thinking about wash-out dye, anyway. If I used it, I could be a blonde while I was in California, then return to being a redhead before I got back to Connecticut. (And before my parents saw me.)

  “All right. Shall we start with the makeup?” asked the salesclerk.

  “Sure,” I replied. “Give me whatever I need.”

  The woman began bustling around behind the counter. Soon a huge array of bottles and jars and tubes were spread before me. Also a box. In the box was the wash-out hair dye.

  “Um, how much is all this going to cost?” I asked the saleswoman.

  “Let’s see here.” She totaled everything up on the cash register.

  When she told me the amount, I couldn’t believe it. That was nearly all the spending money I’d brought with me. Oh, well. I decided it was worth it. So I paid the woman.

  I had $6.28 left to spend for the rest of my vacation.

  * * *

  That evening, after dinner, all the BSC members gathered in Dawn’s room to talk about what we’d done that day. Jessi was in the middle of describing the TV studio she’d been to, when I dumped out my bag of makeup.

  “What is that?” asked Jessi, interrupting her own story.

  “Makeup … and hair dye,” I added quickly. “It washes out.”

  “Makeup and hair dye?” exploded Jessi.

  (My other friends raised their eyebrows or looked at each other.)

  “Yes,” I said testily. “And I am now going to dye my hair.” Before anyone could say another word, I marched into the bathroom and followed the directions on the package. When I joined my friends later (quite a bit later), I, Mallory Pike, was a real and true (oh, okay, a fake but good-looking) blonde.

  “Oh, my lord,” said Claudia, when she and the others saw me.

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “Mallory Pike,” said Jessi, who was absolutely simmering, “it is not you. Plus, you’ve just blown all your money on stuff you won’t even be able to use after our vacation.”

  “I don’t care,” I said haughtily. I felt like a real California girl at last.

  I woke up really early on Wednesday. I could not wait to see Derek again, and then to go to the TV studio. I’ve been on plenty of stages in my life, but a TV studio — where a major sitcom is put together every week — was a different story.

  I crawled out of my sleeping bag. I started to get dressed. A horrible thought crossed my mind. What if I dressed wrong? How was a person supposed to look in a TV studio? Dressed up? Totally cool? Totally casual? I just didn’t know. So finally I put on as cool an outfit as I could find (I had to borrow some things from Claudia’s millions of suitcases), and then packed a bag with a casual outfit, just in case.

  I figured I’d be picked up in a limousine, so I prepared myself for that. I stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror and pretending to act completely nonchalant — like I got picked up in a limo every day. I would see the limo, sigh, and say, “How nice. This is just like the one at home.” Then I realized I couldn’t do that since Derek knew I had no limo at home. Well, at any rate I could get into the limo gracefully and not look overly excited. (I hoped.)

  I knew that Derek would be coming by early in the morning, so I ate breakfast while everyone else was still getting up. When I heard a horn honk, I shrieked, “They’re here!”

  “I wonder why the chauffeur didn’t come to the door for you,” said Mal.

  I looked at my blonde friend. I couldn’t even answer her. I just ran outside and saw — a station wagon driven by Derek’s father. Derek was sitting in the backseat, and his little brother, Todd, was belted into the front next to Mr. Masters. I grinned at them.

  “Hi, you guys! Hi, Derek! Hi, Todd! Hi, Mr. Masters!” In my excitement, I forgot all about the limo and the chauffeur.

  “Hi, Jessi!” replied the Masterses.

  Both boys were excited. “We’re studying insects at my school,” Todd told me. “We’re going to put on a play. I’m going to be in a dance called ‘The Buggie Boogie.’ I get to be an ant.”

  “And we’re doing this really cool episode on P.S. 162 this week,” added Derek. “You’ll get to see some special effects.”

  Mr. Masters had stopped the car in front of a day-care center, and Todd was climbing out, ready for a day of preschool activities. A teacher met him at the curb and led him away.

  “See you later, Todd!” I called.

  Now we were really off to the studio. After a short drive, Mr. Masters said, “Well, here we are.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but the studio was just a big brick building on a crowded Los Angeles street. It did, though, have a marquee in front (like on a movie theater) that said P.S. 162 in huge letters and numbers.

  “Derek, why don’t you take Jessi inside while I park the car?” suggested Mr. Masters. “You’ve got the guest pass for Jessi, don’t you?”

  “Yup.” Derek nodded.

  So Derek and I walked into the building together. We had to show our passes everywhere. Well, I did. Anybody who saw Derek recognized him immediately. Two people even asked him for his autograph. He t
ook all the attention quite matter-of-factly. Anyway, we reached the fourth floor of the building, and Derek led me through corridors to a door marked Studio 8.

  “Here we are!” he exclaimed.

  Oh, wow, I thought. I nearly fainted, just imagining what I’d find on the other side of that door.

  I have to admit that what I did find was just a little disappointing — at first. The room was big, dark, full of filming equipment, and crowded with people. But I didn’t see a single star from P.S. 162, except Derek, of course. Derek showed me to a chair and told me I could sit there and watch everything, but that I’d have to be quiet. He also said his father would join me soon.

  The next thing I knew, a man with curly hair said, “Here, Derek. Revised script.”

  “Okay.” Derek turned to me. “Gotta go. I have to study this thing.”

  A while later, Mr. Masters came in. He sat in a chair next to me.

  “What’s going to happen today?” I asked.

  “Well, unfortunately, not a lot of filming, which I know you want to see, but some other interesting things will go on. And the entire cast of the show will be here today.”

  “Really?” I cried. “My sister will just die! Do you think I could get an autograph from the boy who plays Lamont? Becca has a crush on him.”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Masters, smiling.

  In a few minutes, the studio began to come to life. The actors entered the set. They were holding scripts and reading from them. The director (I guess he was the director) kept saying things like, “Derek, try moving over here,” or, “Gregg, look at Derek when you say that line, okay?”

  “What are they doing?” I asked Mr. Masters.

  “A lot of things,” he replied. “They’re trying out the scripts, which will probably be changed later today. That’s a hard part for Derek. He memorizes his part in one script, then the writers of the show decide the script doesn’t work, so they make changes, and Derek has to learn new lines — overnight. Or sometimes in just a few hours.

  “They’re also blocking the shots. That means they’re figuring where the actors and actresses look best in each scene — where they should be standing, and how they interact with each other. They may be experimenting with props, too.”

  I watched Derek — and all the other actors and actresses. I could not believe that I was seeing in person all the stars I watch at home on TV every Friday night. But I was.

  Most of the morning was spent rehearsing, occasionally rewriting, and blocking shots. (I felt like a professional, knowing all those things.) Then at eleven-thirty, Derek and the other kids from the show were whisked away.

  “Where are they going?” I asked Mr. Masters.

  “They’re being taken off for tutoring. While they’re shooting, they can’t go to school, so a tutor works with them for a couple of hours every day.”

  “Oh,” I said, wishing I only had to go to school for a couple of hours every day.

  While Derek was gone, the first of two really interesting things happened: Special effects. Derek had told me there would be some good ones on this week’s show. So I watched, fascinated, as I learned that animation can be done on computers. And that most sound effects are dubbed in. For instance, if an actor walks down a hallway, his shoes might not make enough noise, so the sound-effects people clomp things around to make the footsteps louder.

  Mr. Masters was telling me some other things when, all at once, the actors and actresses returned to the set — and the director made an announcement.

  “We need more people for the crowd scene,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of extras, but we need a few more, especially teenagers. If anyone is interested in appearing on P.S. 162, come see me right now.”

  “Can I go?” I asked Mr. Masters. “Please?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  Well, as soon as I stood up, I saw that I wasn’t the only one who wanted to be in a crowd scene. An awful lot of other people were hanging around the studio watching, like I was. Brothers, sisters, friends. We rushed to the director. “Whoa!” he said, smiling and holding up his hands. “I only need six more people.” He checked us all over carefully. Finally he said, “You, you, you, you, you, and you.”

  The last “you” was me! The director said he liked my looks. I was terribly flattered — but I had no idea what I’d be in for during the rest of the day. Just getting a simple ten-second shot outside of what was supposed to be a high school took over three hours. The director kept calling, “Cut!” and then the cameras would start over again. I wasn’t sure what was wrong each time, but clearly something was. The director looked like a madman, until suddenly he shouted, “Cut! Print! That was excellent!”

  My job was over.

  I hadn’t gotten paid a cent, but I’d had a great time. And a director had said he liked my looks.

  When the shooting was over, Derek said to me, “So what did you think?”

  “I thought that … the day was terrific … everyone works harder than I ever imagined … and you are fantastic as Waldo!”

  “Thanks,” replied Derek, grinning. Then he added, “You were pretty good in that scene yourself. Honest.”

  “Yeah? I wonder—”

  Derek cut me off. “You know, as long as you’re out here in California, why don’t you try to get on a show or find an agent or something? You know you could do it.”

  I didn’t answer Derek right away. I was thinking over his idea. It sounded like a good one….

  Oh, what a day. Nothing ever starts out quietly or easily here, but I guess that’s all right. I like excitement. After all, I was born in New York.

  My friends and I have now been in California for about five days. I think Dawn’s dad is beginning to feel a little guilty about having to work this week, even though he’ll be on vacation next week. At any rate, he asked Carol to come over again in the morning and to take us someplace exciting.

  So, of course, Carol showed up. She arrived early, just after Mr. Schafer had left for work, and just as Mrs. Bruen was fixing breakfast. She came in the van. I guess she thought we were going to want to go on some big excursion. As it turned out, we needed the van — but not for an excursion.

  When Carol arrived, she sat at the breakfast table with us. “Well,” she said, “I’ve got the van. Where are we off to today, you guys?”

  (I caught Dawn rolling her eyes. She thought Carol was too old to be saying things like “you guys.”)

  Mary Anne, tour guide at large, immediately said, “How about Magic Mountain? Or Sea World? Or the California Museum of Science and Industry? Or to the Forest Lawn in Glendale? That was the first of the Forest Lawn cemeteries. The brochure says, ‘No trip to the West Coast is complete without a stroll through the park and a visit to the art collections.’”

  Was Mary Anne out of her mind? A museum of science and industry? Or, worse, a field trip to a cemetery?

  Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to go to any of these places. At least not today. Dawn didn’t want to go, either. I wanted to go surfing again, and Dawn whispered to me that she couldn’t stand trooping around an amusement park with Carol. “We can do all those fun things with Dad next week,” she said.

  “How about a cruise on the Spirit of Los Angeles?” suggested Mary Anne.

  “NO!” cried Kristy, Dawn, Mal, Claud, Jessi, Jeff, and I.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” said Mary Anne, looking insulted.

  “Why don’t we just go to the beach again?” said Claud. “I want to work on my tan.”

  “All right,” agreed most of us. But we were still left with a little problem. With two problems, actually. One, if we went to the beach, I wanted to go with my new friends. I did not want them to see us getting out of Carol’s van. They might think Carol was our baby-sitter or something. Two, going to the beach still meant that Dawn would have to spend the day with Carol.

  Luckily, Jeff solved all of our problems. “Hey!” he spoke up. “You know what? I’m sorry, but I don�
�t want to go to the beach with a bunch of girls.” (He had the courtesy to add, “No offense.”)

  “Bring Rob,” said Carol.

  “No. He still thinks he’s a bigger Deadhead than I am. Besides, this is my vacation, too, and there’s something I’ve always wanted to do here.”

  “What’s that?” Dawn asked her brother.

  “Go on the NBC Television Studio Tour in Burbank.”

  “In Burbank?” Carol repeated with a sigh.

  “Yeah,” said Jeff. “It’s supposed to be really neat. You can get on camera in this special little studio. And you see what’s happening on whatever shows they’re filming that day. And I think there’s, like, a trivia game show or something. Please can we go there?”

  “I think everyone else wants to go to the beach,” said Carol gently.

  “Wait, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Dawn. “Carol, you drop us off at the beach and then take Jeff to Burbank. We’re allowed to go to the beach by ourselves, and that way Jeff can go on the tour, too.”

  Dawn looked extremely proud of herself. She’d just gotten out of a day with Carol. But Carol didn’t know that. She thought the solution was perfect. “Okay with you, Jeff?” she asked.

  “I guess,” he replied.

  Meanwhile, I was thinking that now I could ride to the beach with my surfing friends. Carol wouldn’t care how I got to the beach as long as I got there. She was only going to drop off Claud and Dawn and everyone anyway.

  So things were settled. And my friends actually picked me up earlier than they’d said they would — before Carol and the others had left. Why did my friends arrive early? Because Paul wasn’t driving, that’s why. A different convertible car pulled up in front of Dawn’s house. It looked as rattly as Paul’s, but the doors worked, so that was something. Smushed into the front seat were Paul, Alana, and the driver, a boy I didn’t know. In the backseat were Carter, Rosemary, and the surfboards. (Three boards this time.)

  “Who’s the driver?” asked Dawn, frowning, as she peered through the front door. She opened the door to see better.

  “Don’t be so obvious!” I hissed. Then I added, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him before. Oh, well. He looks nice. I’ll see you guys at the beach in a little while, okay?”