Cherry Money Baby (13 page)

Then the bathroom door had opened, and Vi waved the pee stick over her head.
“Not pregnant!”

“I’m so relieved.” Cherry was never very good at lying. “So . . . relieved.”

Now Vi used her straw to swirl the soggy sugar residue at the bottom of her cup. “So was Neil mad?”

“He just made that gorilla face.”

“Gorilla face?”

Cherry did an impression. Vi laughed.

“I can’t believe you stormed in there. You could get expelled!”

Cherry did a mental checklist of recent infractions, adding up her column of detentions. She’d definitely earned a suspension. She pictured Principal Girder’s girlie handwriting:
Demonstrates severe impulse-control problems.

“What are they going to do, expel me two months before graduation?”

“Listen,” said Vi. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Rutgers.”

Cherry shrugged. “That’s okay. So, you’re really going?”

Vi’s eyes went dreamy again, except this time instead of diapers it was quads and frat parties and lecture halls, maybe. “I guess so, yeah. That’s why we should really have an awesome summer together.”

The meaning of this landed, bounced once, landed again. “Oh. Like, one last good time before you go away.”

“No!” Vi said, and then, “Maybe a little.”

“Forget it,” Cherry said casually. “It’s not like I thought you were going to stay here forever.”

“Maybe you could apply next year? We could be roomies!”

Cherry imagined sharing a dorm room in New Brushnow or New Bradford or wherever Rutgers was, one side a version of Vi’s current bedroom, all scented candles and military-straight sheets, the other littered with Cherry’s track shorts and empty yogurt cups. How had they stayed friends all this time? They were so different, really.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Cherry, slurping up her latte until it was all gone.

The link in Ardelia’s e-mail indicated a warehouse on the edge of town, up a long gravel road lined with vans, flatbeds, and double-wides. A kid in a production T-shirt stopped them at a makeshift checkpoint. He tapped the window, and Cherry rolled it down. Dorky glasses. Vest. Did they get these guys from the same family or what?

“Hi, can I help you?” the kid said. His tone sounded like,
Please die immediately.

“We’re here to see Ardelia Deen.”

“This is a closed set.”

“We’re invited.” She pointed to his clipboard.

The PA checked his list, nodded, and tapped the roof of the car. “Go ahead. We’re all good.”

“Yeah, I
know.
” Cherry pushed the accelerator.

Lucas chuckled from the passenger seat. She’d worried he’d be uncomfortable around the movie people. But this wasn’t the hotel party crowd. The set was workaday. Guys in jeans hopped in and out of trucks. PAs spoke into headsets and checked clipboards, and everyone moved with the serious focus of people with a job to do and not enough time to do it in.

“Little bigger than the spring semester play, right?” she said. Lucas had done tech on a few school productions. He’d been recruited as the only kid who knew how to work the lighting board, the only one who could fix a thing if it broke.

“Sure is.”

“Maybe you could get a job as a set designer.”

“And work in Hollywood? I’d rather be eaten by wolves.”

“Whoa. Little extreme?”

“You read about how fake everyone is in Hollywood, shaking your hand while they stab you in the back. And besides, so many movies suck these days.” He glanced at her. “Right?”

“Totally,” she said, not sure if she believed it. She’d liked
Heavy Metal Pirates
okay.

They came to a chain of trailers with star haulers written on the side in spangle paint. Cherry parked, and the pair stepped into the evening breeze. They waited for a pickup to rumble by before crossing the road.

Lucas read the names stenciled on the doors. “Stewart. Olive. Lucy. Desi.”

“She’s Olive,” said Cherry, and knocked on the door.

Ardelia answered in a thigh-exposing bathrobe and slippers. From the neck up, she was in character, hair parted in the center and gathered in waves over her ears in an old-fashioned, unflattering style. She squealed.

“Hooray! I’m so glad you came. And this must be Lucas! Hello!”

She hugged him. Lucas managed a “Hey.”

“Come in! Come in!”

The interior of Ardelia’s trailer was Maxwell’s hotel suite in miniature. Minibar, mini-kitchenette, even a mini-chandelier. It was smaller than Cherry’s home, but every surface gleamed or bristled with luxury. It smelled like vanilla.

“That’s all, Jan,” Ardelia said to the woman in white standing by the massage table. “Just leave the table — you can get it later.”

Jan smiled politely and excused herself.

“I know, it’s decadent,” Ardelia said in a guilty tone. “But, honestly, most of the day is just waiting around, so you might as well pamper yourself, right? What do you think of my hair?” She fluffed her waves. “It only took them
three hours
to do it. I’ve been here since four in the morning!” She rolled her eyes.

Ardelia was cheerful, beleaguered, self-effacing, scattered, and attentive all at once. She offered them drinks from the mini-fridge, apologized for the lack of variety (there were seven kinds of soda, water, bubbly water, and a tiny bottle of champagne), and finally sat with an
“Oof!”
on the velvet couch. She gestured for them to sit on the raspberry love seat.

“Sooo,” she said, half speaking, half taking a breath. She turned to Lucas. “Cherry’s told me a lot about you.”

Lucas looked Cherry’s way, as if to verify this. “Oh . . . yeah?”

“You’re a graffiti artist. And also the love of her life.” Ardelia flashed her teeth.

“Ardelia’s into Bonzo,” Cherry offered. Lucas nodded. This was where he was supposed to say something. He nodded some more.

“Oh!” Ardelia patted Cherry’s knee. “I meant to tell you. Maxwell says it was a joy having you there on Friday. He said you were the life of the party.”

Lucas perked up. “Maxwell?”

“The guy who hosted the party,” Cherry said quickly.

“Like, Maxwell Silver? As in Captain Keith?”

“Oh, you’ve seen
Pirates
?” Ardelia said.

Lucas studied Cherry. “That’s . . . cool.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Maxwell,” Ardelia said. “He’s a cad. Only a floozy would fall for his charms.”

Cherry recalled Spanner on the futon. Heh.

“Okay,” said Lucas.

“So,” said Cherry, ready to change the subject, “was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I think . . .” Ardelia started, her eyes moving to the clock. Just then “God Save the Queen” tittered from the side table. “Well, speak of the devil!” She answered her phone. “Hello? Oh, hi, B!”

Lucas made a withering expression, and Cherry shoved his knee.

“Why, yes, he’s here right now. Do you want to talk to him? Just a moment.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Lucas, do you have a minute? Someone would like to speak with you.”

He glanced at Cherry, bewildered. Cherry shrugged.

Confused, Lucas put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” His face went slack.
“Seriously?”

Cherry mouthed to Ardelia,
Who?

Bonzo,
she mouthed back.

“Wow, I mean. It’s . . . an honor.”
Holy shit!
Lucas mouthed to Cherry. “Yeah, I’m a
huge
fan.” He stood, paced. “Yeah, I tag. I mean, not like you. Just . . . right. It’s amazing to talk to you. I always wanted to ask, on the Obama piece, did you lay down an aerosol base or . . . yeah, exactly! I knew it!”

“Come on,” Ardelia said, taking Cherry’s arm. “Let’s leave the artists alone.”

They stepped outside. It was cooler now; the sun had sunk behind the tree line. Ardelia gathered her robe around her neck. Cherry’s shorts and tee exposed more skin, but she wondered if Ardelia didn’t feel a little weird walking around in her tiny robe. No one seemed to notice, though. Stagehands carried a plaster buggy to a flatbed truck; PAs shouted at one another.

“You know Bonzo?” Cherry said.

“Not really, but I made a few phone calls. Amazing what a pair of premiere tickets can buy you.”

“You just made his whole year.”

“Listen.” Ardelia touched Cherry’s arm. “I wanted to talk to you about something. I’ve got a . . . personal problem.” She made a so-so gesture with her hand. “Well, not a problem. More like a personal
project.
”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

Cherry sighed. “You’re leaving, right? The movie’s wrapping, and you’re gonna go do your indie film somewhere.” She pictured one of those groaner indie films that movie stars did to up their street cred. All handheld cameras. Someone gets cancer and comes home for a shitty wedding. Lots of crying and screaming and whiny music. She hated those.

Ardelia laughed. “No! We’ve still got a few more weeks of shooting.”

“Oh,” said Cherry. “So, why’d you get all serious?”

“I’m screwing this up royally, aren’t I?” Ardelia said. “I’m getting serious, Cherry, because I want to offer you a job.”

Cherry stopped in her tracks. “A job? Like, working for the studio?”

“Not the studio,” said Ardelia. “I want to put you on my payroll. I want you to work for
me.
”

“Doing what?”

Ardelia placed her hands on her tummy, jutting out her hips so her flat stomach looked round. “I want a baby,” she said. “And I want you to help me find a womb.”

“Um,” said Cherry. “April Fools?”

On April 3, Cherry worked her last day at Burrito Barn. The manager who’d witnessed the Ardelia incident had returned to grad school. His replacement, the
new
New Manager, was only a year older than Cherry and a freshman at Holy Cross.

“I’m just doing this until my summer internship starts,” she said, accepting Cherry’s folded uniform and visor. “Two months is about all I can take of this place.”

Cherry raised her hand. “Three and a half years.”

New New looked horrified. “You should get a gold watch.”

“It’s just a break,” said Cherry. “I’m doing this other thing for a little while, but I’ll be back.”

New New snapped her gum.
“Why?”

For old time’s sake, Cherry purchased a burrito (New New didn’t roll it right — way too loose) and ate it in the parking lot, no longer an employee, just a paying customer. Tossing away the soggy wrapper, she felt like she was leaving behind the only thing she’d ever done well.

Her paychecks from Burrito Barn had paid for her cell and incidentals, like nights out with Vi or Lucas. She’d also contributed to family expenses, sometimes stopping at Hadwin Market, throwing eggs, bread, and milk in with her personal items. Pop never asked her to do this — it was just something you did, like making your bed or plucking hairs off the Irish Spring after a shower. Now Cherry had a new, better-paying job, and that meant she could help out more. She kept reminding herself of this, since she wasn’t sure she deserved her new paycheck.

As Ardelia’s “consultant,” she would be paid for her opinions, but how could her opinions be worth money since they just
happened
— she just
had
them — without any effort on her part? She wasn’t sure the job constituted work. Work was supposed to be hard, unpleasant, or at least
produce
something — like a burrito. How could she justify charging for something that cost her nothing? It didn’t seem fair.