Dollhouse (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Kamille

“K
am, wait! Please, let’s talk about this!”

Kamille heard Kass behind her, following. That slore Simone wasn’t even bothering. Hopefully, she was crawling home in shame like the rat that she was. Or jumping out of the second-floor window and plummeting to her death. Either was fine with Kamille, she could give a shit.

Word about the incident must have spread like wildfire, though, because Kamille spotted two more cameramen up ahead, filming her as she headed in their direction. Fuck it. She didn’t care anymore. Let the TV viewers, let the entire fucking world, see what deceitful, lying sluts her ex-sister and her ex-friend were.

“Kamille, what’s going on?” Her mother had appeared out of nowhere, carrying a sewing kit and a lint remover. She fell in step beside her. “Why are you out here in your dress? Oh my goodness, it’s beautiful! It’s exactly what I would have picked out for you! That Vera Wang is a genius! But, honey? Did you know your zipper’s undone? And the guests are starting to arrive, and they’ll see you, and why do you look all red in the face, like you’re about to kill somebody? Is it the caterers? Because they were kind of making me mad, too, but I think I straightened out the problem with the Thai beef skewers—”

“Mom, shut
up
!” Kamille barreled ahead of her.

“Kamille! Sweetheart! What’s going on? Are you having cold feet, or—”

“Ask your whore daughter Kassidy, she’s right behind us.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Kamille started down the stairs without waiting for a response. She remembered to pick up her long skirt, but a second too late; she heard a loud ripping noise as her heel caught on the hem. Whatever.

“Kamille!”

“Kamille, wait!”

“Kamille, can you slow down, we’re having a hard time framing this shot!”

Now the entire entourage was following her: her mother, Kass, Courtney, and what seemed like most of the TV crew. Hank and the network must be getting some killer footage, she thought darkly.

As she approached the boys’ dressing room on the first floor, she heard Chase and the others laughing and joking about something. She pushed the door open and marched inside.

They were all in there, dressed in their elegant gray-and-black tuxedos: Chase, Beau, Benjy, and Chase’s brothers. Benjy, Zach, and Justin were sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing a video game on somebody’s iPad. Beau was adjusting the knot on Chase’s tie. Two cameramen were already set up and filming; they’d obviously gotten the word.

Chase stood there, looking more gorgeous than ever in his tux. He wore a single cream rose at his lapel—just like the cream roses he’d given Kamille after their very first fight, when they’d told each other “I love you” for the very first time.

But at this moment the memory of those roses was doing nothing for Kamille. She wished she had a knife . . . so she could cut off his wretched little penis and watch him writhe and scream in agony.

“Babe? You look amazing! But you’re not supposed to let me see you,” Chase said, his blue eyes bewildered.

“You okay, sweetheart? You want me to get your mom for you?” Beau said, sounding concerned.

Kamille wriggled her engagement ring off her finger. She started to throw it at Chase . . . then changed her mind.

“No, actually, I’m not gonna give this back to you so you can return it to the store and spend the money on Simone or Kassie or one of your other girlfriends,” she announced. “I’m gonna keep it and spend the money on myself. Yeah, I’ll buy some billboard space on Sunset,
babe,
so the entire city of Los Angeles can know what a fucking
man-whore,
what a fucking
con job
you are. Or I might take out a contract on your head. Whatever. I’ve got lots of time to think about it, now that I don’t have this bullshit sham of a wedding to go through.
Fuck
you, Chase! I hope you rot in
hell
.”

All the color had drained out of Chase’s face. “Kamille? Babe? I don’t understand where this is coming from. Could we just go somewhere alone and—”

“No! You’re wasting my time, douche bag. Oh, and by the way? About Simone? She did tell you about her herpes and all her other STDs, right? Better get yourself to a doctor. ’Kay, bye for now! Have a nice life!” Air-kissing, Kamille turned and walked away from Chase.

This time, for good.

PART V

The Family That Gives Birth Together . . .

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Kyle

L
.A. was always a bitch in August, but this year seemed worse than usual. As Kyle drove to the party in Laurel Canyon in her new (well, technically used) Expedition that she’d bought from Uncle Desi, she cranked up the a/c to the max. She rolled down the windows at the same time, too. Doing eighty-five on the 101, one could generate a killer breeze.

Her cell buzzed. It was a text from Ash:

WHERE U B, HO?

Nice.
Kyle picked up her phone and dialed. Ash answered immediately.

“Why’re you calling, that’s weird,” Kyle heard Ash yell, over what sounded like screeching guitars and a whole lot of cheering and a girl shouting: “Who wants my panties?”

“Yeah, talking on the phone’s so 2008. I didn’t feel like typing, ’kay? I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do I need to pick up Priscilla?”

“Nah, she’s here already, sucking some guy’s—”

There was a peal of laughter, and a scream, and more laughter. Then the phone went dead.

Fun party,
Kyle thought.
Better get there quick so I don’t miss out.

She pushed the accelerator down with just her big right toe and watched the needle climb to eighty-six . . . eighty-eight . . . ninety. It
was
ninety, right? Her vision was a little blurry from the vodka shots she’d had before heading out. But she was basically fine to drive. And besides, she’d had a tough day today—nothing good on TV, and her mother had been a complete bitch to her about cleaning her room.

It was also the four—no, five-year—anniversary of her father’s death. Not that Kyle believed in anniversaries, which were kind of bullshit. Still, under the circumstances, she was entitled to as many vodka shots as she wanted.

Frankly, she was entitled to as many vodka shots as she wanted
every
day, not just today, considering how much stupid drama her family had been putting her through lately. Kass’s baby-daddy bomb, the epic wedding fail . . . and Kass and Kamille weren’t speaking to each other, which meant that the rest of the family had to walk on eggshells constantly. And of course, the fucking tabloids had been all over all of them since June, and even more since mid-July, when the Life Network had aired the now-infamous “Kamille and Chase” episode.

The worst moment was when Kyle caught Bree watching it on Hulu, even though Kat and Beau had forbidden her. Poor Bree, who had been sheltered from the truth on the big day, had sobbed her eyes out . . .

Kyle finally reached the address in Laurel Canyon and parked behind a long row of BMWs, Benzes, and other fancy rides. It was only five-ish—still daylight. Ash had texted her earlier that the party had been going since noon, starting at the pool and spreading its tentacles inside and up as the day progressed. Kyle had worn her turquoise bikini, black cover-up, and no shoes. She’d forgotten to put on makeup—but at this point, everyone at the party was probably too drunk or high or both to care about nuances like lip gloss and eyeliner. She never had a problem hooking up at these things, anyway.

“Kyle!”
Ash greeted her at the door as though she owned the place. She was wearing a red satin demi and supershort shorts and waving a cloudy-looking bong in the air. “Where the fuck you been?”

“Uh, hey.”

“Come on, lemme introduce you to”—Ash turned to the two guys standing behind her—“
what
did you say your name was?”

“I’m Elmo, and this is Cookie Monster,” the first guy said with a straight face.

“Ha-ha, good one, dude! Yeah, I’m Cookie Monster, and I wanna eat your cookies!”

They started fist-pumping.

Kyle frowned. She would need a
lot
more shots, not to mention the rest of that bong, if she was going to hook up with the likes of these two losers. There had to be higher-quality meat at this party. Or maybe she would skip the whole tedious mating ritual and just get wasted. (
More
wasted, that is.) Over the years, she’d cultivated the art of numbing out in various ways. But in the end, it was all the same: hooking up, drinking, smoking pot, whatever. Any of it was better than feeling stuff.

She’d actually been doing better for a while, not needing the booze or the pot or the rest of it, partly due to Benjy, who had become a good friend. It was nice to have someone not completely lame who understood her, and who didn’t judge her or patronize her (like her mom most of the time, plus her teachers at school
all
of the time).

But Kyle and Benjy’s friendship had kind of cooled over the summer, after Kamille’s disastrous nonwedding. He had convinced Kyle to try out for Mr. Weaver’s play at the community center; she’d signed up for an audition slot, only to blow it off at the last minute for no particular reason. And then she’d started breaking into the parents’ liquor cabinet again, and smoking a little pot here and there. She was also hanging out with Ash and Priscilla more and more, even scoring an updated fake ID so she could go to college bars with them. Benjy had noticed and tried to get her to talk about it. Which had the opposite effect, making her want to
not
talk about it. After a while he stopped trying, until finally, they were back to the old days of barely speaking to each other.

Whatever. She didn’t care anymore. She was here now, at this party, and she wanted to forget it all. Benjy, her mom, her dead dad, her whole stupid, fucking life.

Sighing, she followed Ash and her bong inside the house. The
Sesame Street
duo had wandered off to hit on two girls who looked
way
too young to be here. Once in the living room, Kyle could barely make out the confusing tangle of bodies: naked, half naked, dancing, lap-dancing, inhaling, not inhaling. There were pitchers of beer everywhere, likely laced with quaaludes, and garbage cans filled with jungle juice, fruit floating on the top. The coffee table was covered with a fine layer of white powder, and the air reeked of pot.

“Ohmigod,
Kyyyyyllllle
!” Priscilla bounced up to her and gave her a slobbery French kiss. “Mmm, you taste like an Altoid!” she said breathlessly.

Kyle pulled back. “And you taste like stale pizza.
Ew.
What the fuck, Priscilla?”

“Ash, did you give Kyle her birthday present yet?” Priscilla asked their friend.

“Huh? My birthday was like months ago,” Kyle said.

“It’s a
belated
birthday present, idiot, ’cause we forgot to get you anything for your
real
birthday.” Ash reached into her short-shorts pocket and pulled out a tiny white, heart-shaped tablet. She pressed it against Kyle’s lips. “Happy Birthday!”

“Um, what is it?”

“Don’t think about it too much. Just swallow,” Ash advised her.

Kyle hesitated. She wanted to get wasted, sure, but she usually liked to know what she was taking first. “But what’s in it?” she persisted.

Priscilla stroked her cheek. “Kyle, puh-lease, you’re gonna love it!”

“Come on, bitch, don’t be shy,” Ash urged.

Kyle was about to just go along with it—what the hell?— when she heard an insistent buzzing sound. Was that someone’s phone? Was that
her
phone? Maybe someone was texting her? She managed to find her cell, which she had apparently wedged into her bikini top (she couldn’t remember when), and glanced at the screen. There were three voice-mail messages from home. When had all those calls come in?

Kyle plucked the little white pill from Ash and held it tightly in her palm as she listened to the first message. It was from Bree.

“Hey, Ky? Where are you? Can you come home right away? ’Cause I think I’m sick, and there’s no one here. And I might be in big trouble, too, ’cause I saw you drinking that stuff today, Grey Moose, and I don’t know why you like it because it tastes like
yech.
Anyway, I got it out of Mommy and Daddy’s bottle closet, and I tried some, but then I accidentally spilled it all over the floor, and now Mommy and Daddy are prolly gonna be supermad. And I think I’ve got the flu, ’cause I just threw up . . .”

“Jesus.” Kyle hung up and dialed the home number. There was no answer. She also tried Bree’s cell. No answer there either.

She checked the other two messages. They were also from Bree, basically saying the same stuff.

“Kyle, come
on
!” Ash was tugging on her arm impatiently. “Stop checking your fucking messages!”

“I’ve gotta go.”

“What?”
Ash and Priscilla said in unison.

“I’ve gotta go. Here’s your present back. Sorry.”

Kyle ran, or tried to run, through the jam-packed room, the sweaty crush of bodies. It was all her fault. She must have left the liquor cabinet unlocked.
God,
she was an idiot.

“D
on’t you ever, ever touch that stuff again. Do you hear me?
Ever!
”

Bree stared up at her guiltily. She was lying in her ruffly pink princess bed, clutching her teddy bear to her chest. Kyle had found her there when she got home. Thank
God.
It could have been so much worse . . . like, Bree could have OD’d on alcohol, or fallen into the pool and drowned, or wandered into busy traffic, or—

“I’m so sorry, Ky!” Bree squeaked. “I feel a lot better now. The ice water helped, and the tummy medicine, and the cold cloth on my forehead.”

“Good. How much of the, uh, Grey Moose did you drink?”

“I don’t know. I tried to drink as much as you did. But it tasted so awful!”

Kyle groaned. “So you were spying on me before?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Bree looked away, blushing.

“Brie Cheese, we’ve gotta have a talk about that. First of all, you shouldn’t copy whatever I do. ’Cause in this case, I made a mistake. A stupid mistake. I shouldn’t have touched Mom and Dad’s, I mean
your
dad’s, bottle of vodka. Or any of those bottles. They’re supposed to be locked up in the bottle closet, it’s called the liquor cabinet, and they’re only for adults. Not for kids.”

“But
you’re
not a kid!”

“Yes, I am. I’m a big kid, almost an adult, but I’m technically still a kid. I’m seventeen. And even adults don’t know how to handle that stuff sometimes.” Kyle wanted to add,
Like your mom, Angie.
But she bit her tongue.

“Well, I’m never drinking that Grey Moose again, ’cause it tastes bad, and it made me feel horrible,” Bree declared.

“What the
hell,
Kyle?”

Kyle turned around. Benjy was standing in the doorway, looking seriously pissed.

“What’s this about Bree drinking vodka
?”
he demanded angrily. “And what’s up with the empty bottle on the living room floor? Have you been getting my sister
drunk,
you self-destructive asshole? She’s
eleven
.”

“No, no! I’ve been out this whole time,” Kyle said quickly. “See, she got into the parents’ liquor cabinet, and that was kinda my bad because I left it unlocked. But she’s fine now, and we’ve been having a nice talk about it, and—”

“
What
in the name of God is going on?”

Kat stormed into Bree’s room, followed by Beau. Kyle cringed. Her mother, wearing a pretty white suit (probably from a visit to her father’s grave), looked like she was ready to kill someone—well,
her.
So did Beau.

She was so screwed.