Bad to the Bone (19 page)

“You wish you could be with them,” Jorge surmised.

“You a mind reader now?” Esme snapped, downing more of her iced tea.

“When it comes to you? Maybe.”

It was true that no one knew her like Jorge. But sharing her feelings felt weak. And she refused to be weak. “I don't want to talk about it,” she said.

“Which is why you need to talk about it,” her friend answered.

“What I need is for them to get to Puerto Vallarta.”

Jorge gazed at her for a moment, then rubbed his eyes wearily. “You drive me nuts, Esme. But in a good way. Go sit. I'll bring food.”

Esme was about to protest, but then let her feet carry her to an empty round table with three bar stools. When she sagged onto one of them, she realized just how tired she was, and what a good sport Jorge was being. Who'd want to hang out with her at a time like this, except for a really good friend? Lydia and Kiley would be cool, of course. They were wonderful, and endlessly supportive. Yet she had a history with Jorge, and at a time of family crisis—there was no doubt that this was a family crisis—there was nothing like someone who knew you both then and now.

Junior was like that, and Jorge especially was like that. It was a blessing.

Jorge came back with a plate of thinly sliced mango, fresh strawberries, and pitted loquats. “Dig in.”

“I'm not hungry.”

He slid onto the stool next to her. “Fine. Then talk to me.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

He smiled. “Then talk about the nothing in your heart. Hold on.”

She raised her eyebrows as he took a small notebook out of his pocket, and a stub of pencil.

“Good line, might use it in a rap, gotta write it down.” He scrawled quickly, then pocketed his notebook. “Okay. I'm all ears. Eat, talk, breathe. Choice is yours.”

Esme didn't feel like eating. She didn't feel like talking, either, but she did anyway. She told Jorge about her fears for her parents, her guilt at not going with them, her larger guilt at being able to stay in America while they had to flee back to Mexico, and how she couldn't really sleep until she heard they were safe.

He took a mango slice and chewed it contemplatively. “What did they say to you?”

“What?”

“I know you, and I know your parents. Your mother is big on advice. I bet you asked for some before they left. What was it?”

Esme pursed her lips in frustration. She really did not want to have to share this, even though she knew she would. “They said … they said they wanted me to finish school.”

“Ah.” Jorge swallowed another piece of fruit.

“What does ‘ah’ mean?” Esme demanded. “Like you know so much?”

“I'm the guy who helped you open Esme Ink, remember?” Jorge pointed out. “But you know I agree with them.”

The lobby hushed for a moment as the British rapper Petey Mac and American rocker Joe Leo swept in, then people started
to buzz excitedly. Like Platinum and Audrey Birnbaum, they were slated to do a duet together.

“No one cares whether Petey Mac or Joe Leo finished high school,” Esme said.

Jorge considered this. “Their parents might care. And if you had a chance to spend a day with me at UCLA, you'd care, too.”

“Doubtful” was all Esme said.

“That's because you aren't even willing to give it a chance. Maybe you're afraid.”

“I ain't afraid of anything. Or no one.” Esme was getting pissed.

“I ain't so sure.” Jorge echoed her phrasing on purpose. “I think you're afraid of maybe not being able to cut it. You're afraid you couldn't cut it at Bel Air High, and you're afraid that if you go to college, you won't be able to cut it there. So what if you were an honor student at Echo Park High? No one expects much from the poor brown kids. But what if you had to compete out in the real world?”

Esme's angry eyes flashed at him. Why was he being so pissy? “I need a friend, not a lecture.”

“Academically, you can cut it against anyone,” Jorge continued as if she'd never hurled her anger at him. “I know that. But you don't.”

Esme was ready to scream. How dare he bust her chops like this, on a day like this? On the other hand, she knew who had been the first person she'd wanted to talk to when this crisis with her parents had erupted, and that Jorge's father would never, ever send a bill for the time and energy he'd put
into her parents' case. She knew Jorge really cared. About her parents. About her.

“You're right,” she finally said. “I don't.”

His eyes shone. “You'll love college, if you ever decide to go. It's wonderful. Nothing like high school. Nothing. You take the classes you want, you find the professors you want. You find the people you want to hang with. And the best thing is, everyone wants to be there.”

She nibbled on one of the strawberries. “Count me out, then.”

“You think there's nothing you can learn? UCLA has a famous art department. You think the only canvas you can use is people's flesh?”

She dipped her pinky into some strawberry juice on her plate. “No.” It had been a long, long time since Esme had done a sketch on paper, or dug out her cheap watercolor paints. She didn't even know where they were anymore.

Jorge put a hand on hers and looked into her eyes. “Just come with me. One day. That's all I ask.” He hesitated a moment, then plunged on. “Think of how happy your mama and papa will be when you tell them, And I'm going to UCLA for a day with Jorge.'”

She had to smile at that. “You fight dirty.”

“Say yes, Esme.”

“No. You're manipulating me.” She folded her arms defiantly, until he smiled at her with a goofy grin and a face he'd been making for several years that always cracked her up, no matter how much she tried not to laugh.

She laughed.

“Okay! Okay! I'll spend a day at UCLA just to get you off my ass. I'm going to the ladies'.” When she hopped off her stool and headed to the john, Jorge was grinning at her.

The ladies' lounge in the lobby of the Kodak was beautiful. A wall of mirrors was decked by a marble vanity with all manner of mini toiletries nestled in small bamboo baskets—perfume, deodorant, mouthwash, hairspray and lipstick. Esme noted they were all made by one of the huge companies that was sponsoring the Rock Music Awards.

Everyone had an angle.

She checked out her reflection in the mirror, fluffed her hair, tried one of the vials of perfume and liked it, then slicked on a tiny tube of lip gloss and stuck it in her pocket—the sample sizes were meant to be taken. Who was the girl she was staring at in the mirror, she wondered. Was Jorge right? Was she afraid to compete? If that was true, she didn't like what it said about her at all. It was not how she saw herself. And it wasn't who she wanted to be.

When she'd finished in the ladies' room, she returned to Jorge in the lobby. “I'm going to think about what you said,” she promised.

“Once you spend the day with me at UCLA, I think you'll have the answer to all your questions,” Jorge predicted. “Hey someone stopped by while you were in the john.”

“Kiley?” Esme guessed.

“Jonathan Goldhagen. Said he was here to help his dad. He also said he saw us sitting together.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“So, what's up with you two?” Jorge asked.

Esme shrugged again.

“Ah, well, now I understand,” Jorge said with obvious sarcasm.

“You asking me do I still have feelings for him or if we're still together or what?” Esme demanded. “We're not together.” She struggled to be honest. “He's not good for me,” she continued, not meeting Jorge's eyes. “I don't like who I am with him. And I don't think that's going to change. But the feelings I had for him … they don't just go away.”

“Yeah.” Jorge sounded a bit wistful.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he say?”

He shook his head. “Doesn't matter.” He slid off his stool. “I've got a class at noon and—”

She put a hand on his arm, hard and strong under her fingers. “Don't even think about leaving until you tell me what he said.”

Still, Jorge hesitated. Then, finally: “Just because he said it doesn't mean I believe it—”

“Would you just tell me already?” Esme demanded.

“Fine. Jonathan told me that he was watching us for a while, that it was clear you were into me, and that you were the greatest girl he'd ever met in his life, but he was pretty sure he'd lost you. He warned me not to blow it. Like there's anything to blow,” he added with a nervous laugh. “Okay. Now I got to get to class,
esa
. See ya.”

Before she could even formulate a response, he'd grabbed his backpack and hustled away.

Kiley parked Platinum's Mercedes CLK convertible in the gravel turnaround near her guesthouse and shut off the engine. She sat there a moment, trying to muster the energy to go into the house. She was still wearing the clothes she'd worn to Lydia's impromptu party the night before.

It had been surreal that morning, going with Lydia up to the main house, where there were fresh blueberry croissants, juice, and a pot of coffee waiting for them on the kitchen table. Lydia's aunt had been surprised to see Kiley but had greeted her warmly; how nice it was that Kiley had stayed over to keep Lydia company. Lydia must have gotten lonely, all alone on the huge property. Would Kiley like some coffee, some juice, a warm croissant?

Kiley had accepted all three. She sat there, sipping coffee, and watched Lydia give an Academy Award-worthy performance. You never would have known that the girl was hungover Kat
had gone on and on about how great the place looked. She had no idea that only hours earlier a few hundred revelers had turned her home and grounds into a mosh pit of rock and roll decadence. There was simply no trace of it left. None.

Kat had been very chatty; she'd had a great time with the kids, who were exhausted from traveling all night and had headed right upstairs to bed. Somehow Kat was energized about being home again, minus Anya. It was going to be a fresh start.

Lydia had managed to chitchat with her aunt as if all was normal. She even managed to down a croissant with her five cups of black coffee. That girl, Kiley decided, had an iron constitution.

Fortunately Serenity and Sid had stayed over at Platinum's agent's house the night before—they were friends with the agent's kids—so Kiley didn't need to be at Platinum's to drive them to school. Instead, she'd driven Lydia. Yep, just two friends driving off to high school, waving goodbye to Lydia's aunt Kat as they got into the Mercedes.

Totally, utterly surreal. Thank God for the Rescue Crew.

Somehow, Lydia had made it through the school day. She even ran track during gym class. Kiley was the one who felt like crap. She'd dragged herself through the day, spacing out so totally in her Shakespeare class that when the teacher asked her to expound on Banquo's character in
Macbeth
, she was unable to even remember who Banquo was.

“I hate my dress,” Serenity announced.

Kiley looked up. Serenity was standing by the Mercedes with her hands on her nonexistent hips, scowling.

“Hello to you too,” Kiley said, reaching into the backseat
for her backpack full of books she should be studying tonight. “How was school?”

“Did you even hear me? I
said
I hate my dress.”

Kiley got out of the car and slung her frayed backpack over one shoulder. “What dress is that, Serenity?”

“The one that doodyhead Chanis picked out for me,” Serenity said. “For the Rock Music Awards.”

“First of all, since you don't like people to call
you
names, it's a good idea not to call other people names,” Kiley began. “And second of all—”

“It's
purple,”
Serenity spit. “Hannah says purple is totally out this season. When I showed her a picture of my dress online, she laughed.”

Hannah was the agent's high-school-aged daughter. Serenity idolized her. Kiley could not imagine what would make the girl dis Serenity's dress like that.

“So you have to call that doodyhead—”

“Serenity!”

Serenity sighed dramatically and folded her arms. “
Fine
. Call Chanis. Tell her I want the yellow dress I tried on first. And make sure she doesn't mix that up with the yellow and white dress because that one looked like puke on a Pringle.”

“Colorfully put,” Kiley commented. “Fine. The yellow dress. I'll call Chanis.” Kiley was so tired her eyes felt gritty. Maybe if she took a shower and lay down for just fifteen or twenty minutes, she could cope.

“I'm going to take a break,” Kiley said. “And then I'll meet you in your room in about forty-five minutes. Okay?”

“So you're going back to the guesthouse?”

“Yep,” Kiley said, starting to walk away.

“There's a surprise waiting,” Serenity singsonged.

Surprise?
Kiley winced. Great. Just great. What other torture could a third-grade girl have planned for her? Especially a third grader with resources?

“Your boyfriend is waiting for you!” Serenity burst out.

Okay that made no sense
at all
.

Kiley stopped and swung around. “What are you talking about?”

“Tom?” Serenity said as if Kiley was completely clueless. “Mom said he could wait in your living room.”