Dollhouse (2 page)

Chapter Two

Kass

K
ass set her keys on the front hall table, slid off her shoes, and placed them neatly on the shoe rack in the closet. The house was blissfully silent, i.e., no loud music or loud laughter or loud sex, which meant that Kamille wasn’t home yet. Good. She would take advantage of the peace and quiet to get some much-needed R & R. It had been a long night at the restaurant, and she couldn’t wait to kick back with a mug of hot apple cider and a biography of Abraham Lincoln she’d been dying to read.

Thank God she’d said no to an evening out with Kamille and her little entourage. It would have been different if it had been just Kamille and her, hanging out at home with some Ben & Jerry’s and an old black-and-white movie. But the idea of clubbing with Kamille and Finn and Simone and Simone’s latest accessory . . . well, frankly, Abe Lincoln was way better company.

First of all, Kass really didn’t understand the appeal of clubs. Who wanted to stand in line for an hour at the mercy of some rude doorman, just to pay a fortune for a watery drink, shout to be heard above bad pop music, and get hit on by losers? (Not that Kass got hit on much—or ever—but still.)

For another thing, Kass
loathed
Simone. She’d always felt this way about her, ever since Kamille and Simone (inexplicably) became friends in sixth grade. Kass knew Simone was trouble the first time they’d all had a sleepover at the Romero house. Kass was thirteen then, and Simone and Kamille were twelve, and there were several other kids at that particular Taco Bell and horror-movie marathon, including boys. Kass got her period for the first time that night (speaking of horror), and she spent hours in the bathroom trying to figure out how to insert a tampon. (This angle or that angle? Was it
supposed
to feel like a torture device?) She’d finally resorted to pads, which were so huge and bulky, like diapers, but at least they didn’t hurt.

Unfortunately, the next morning, their old dog, Valentino (God rest his soul), managed to fish several discarded napkins out of the bathroom wastebasket, gnaw them to shreds, and leave the bloody remains scattered all over the house. The she-witch Simone gleefully pointed them out to the sleepover guests; she also identified them as Kass’s, chanting stupid songs about crimson waves and cotton ponies. Kamille had actually laughed along with everyone else—for a second, anyway, before yelling at Simone to shut the fuck up and helping Kass to clean up the mess.

Simone had always brought out the worst in Kamille.

And as for Finn . . . Kass had made it a point not to get too close to any of Kamille’s boyfriends because she went through so many of them, so quickly. Pretty much one every three months, like a new diet trend or a new workout routine. Each time, it was the same, with Kamille announcing ecstatically that [fill in the blank] was absolutely and undeniably The One. Then some major drama would happen, and there would be a tearful, devastating breakup . . . after which the pattern would repeat itself.

Kamille never had a problem getting a boyfriend. With her deep blue eyes, voluptuous body, and wild, curly auburn mane, she was drop-dead gorgeous. (When the Romero girls were growing up, people would call her the “pretty” sister, then hastily add that Kass was the “smart” one, as though that was supposed to make up for the implied insult.) Kamille’s problem was getting (and keeping) a boyfriend who really and truly cared about her. Why did she always seem to attract jerks with commitment issues?

Kass sighed. Relationships really were more trouble than they were worth. It was a good thing that she herself had chosen to focus on her education. Straight A’s were forever. Men most definitely were not.

Her cell buzzed. It was a text from Kamille.

SO FUN HERE CUTE GUYS COME MEET US!

“Right, uh-huh,” Kass muttered. Heading down the hall, she lied-slash-typed: SORRY IN BED ALREADY. LOVE U!

No response. Whatever. Kass tucked the phone into her jeans pocket and proceeded through the living room, randomly picking up empty coffee cups (Kamille’s) and Baja Fresh bags (Kamille’s) and a pair of red stilettos (Kamille’s). The decor of the house exactly represented the total split in the two sisters’ personalities, i.e., part flea-market vintage (Kass) and part Z Gallerie (Kamille). Kass hated wasting money; why spend two hundred dollars on a new chair when the same item could be had for five dollars at a garage sale, slightly used? Conversely, Kamille hated “other people’s old stuff,” claiming that they always came with mystery stains and nasty smells.

In this way, the two of them had been arguing and compromising and sharing the cute little Spanish-style bungalow for the last year. Okay, so Kamille wasn’t always easy. And she really did need to stop putting all her energy into men and start focusing on what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. But she was Kass’s sister and best friend. They shared everything: their secrets, their hopes, their dreams, and their frustrations, especially about the other members of their family. Kass absolutely couldn’t imagine
not
living with her—dirty coffee cups and skanky friends and all.

K
ass woke up to the sound of very, very loud sex.

“Oh my God,
yes
!” a female voice cried out. “Oh, yeah, faster.
Faster!
”

Kass sat up and peered groggily at the alarm clock: 3:32 
A.M.
The sound was coming from the living room. Kamille and Finn must be at it on the couch. Really, was this necessary?

But the voice didn’t sound like Kamille’s.

Then Kass heard another sound through the
other
wall—the wall that separated her bedroom from Kamille’s. It was the steady, rhythmic squeaking of a mattress. More sex. Wait—did that mean
two
hookups were going on simultaneously?

“Oh . . . my . . . God!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s it!”

“Mmmmmm . . .”

“Harder . . .”

Kass squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the stereophonic X-rated noises. She tried, too, not to think about that other time, back when she was sixteen and Kamille and Simone were fifteen. Kamille and Simone had dragged Kass to some house party way across town in Hidden Hills, and it hadn’t ended well, with Kamille and Simone drunk out of their minds and the girl who had given them a ride to the party, Willow, completely passed out. Kamille had somehow convinced Kass to drive them all home in Willow’s parents’ Mercedes minivan, even though Kass only had her learner’s permit and had never driven on a highway. Kass could still recall how terrified she felt, driving down the 405, convinced that she was going to get pulled over any second—or that she was going to crash the superexpensive car—while Kamille made out with some boy in the backseat, and Simone did more than make out with a second boy (Kass could see her grinding away on his lap in her rearview mirror), and Willow slept way in the back in the Burberry dog bed, her snoring mingling with the two couples’ moaning and groaning . . .

“Shit,” Kass whispered to herself.

Why did everyone else always get to have all the fun?

Chapter Three

Kyle

“C
ould you please pass the beef stew”—Kat paused—“Wyatt, is it?”

“It’s
White.
White Castle,” replied Kyle’s most excellent date for tonight’s Sunday Nightmare Dinner, which is what she called these weekly torture sessions. Tonight it was the whole family—Kyle and her sisters, Kass and Kamille; their two stepsibs, Benjy and Bree; the parents, Kat and Beau (who was technically not a parent but a stepparent)—plus Kat’s obnoxious friend Pippa Ashton-Gould and Pippa’s extremely lame son, Parker.

And, of course, White. As he lifted the heavy tureen, Kyle noticed her mother’s gaze falling on his bare, vampire-pale arm, covered as it was with an assortment of not-very-PG tattoos and what might or might not be several track marks. The min pins, Coco and Chanel, bounded up to the table and went into high-octane begging mode.

“White Castle! That’s a supercool name! Does that mean you love hamburgers, then?” Bree said, stuffing a buttered roll into her mouth. At ten, she was insanely chirpy and friendly. She wasn’t too unbearable, for a little stepsister.

“Actually, I’m a vegan. See?” White pointed to his T-shirt, which had a picture of a headless, bloody chicken and the words
DEAD MEAT
on it. “That’s our band. I sing lead. Hey, we’re playing at the Bad Touch Lounge over on Sunset this Wednesday. Midnight show. Y’all should check it out.”

“Can I go? Can I go?” Bree squealed.

“No!”
Kat and Beau said at the same time. “School night,” Beau added feebly.

“I find vegans so fascinating!” Pippa Ashton-Gould piped up, leaning toward White and giving him a bird’s-eye view of her rock-hard boob job. Pippa had always reminded Kyle of a dead monkey, with her surgically thin, spray-tanned body. She had a way of coming on to younger guys as though she actually had a chance, which she didn’t. It was so pathetic, how old people like Pippa and Kat tried to hang on to the dinosaur remains of their sexuality. They were like fossils.

“Well, frankly, if you don’t believe in eating animals, veganism is the only tenable position,” Pippa’s son, Parker, added. “Conventional vegetarianism is a morally murky middle ground. Animals still have to die in order for milk and eggs to get produced. So I say, either be a vegan or do like I do and be unrepentantly carnivorous! Eat meat!” He speared a piece of beef and chomped down on it gleefully.

What a fucking moron,
Kyle thought irritably.

Bree stared in horror at her glass of milk. “There’s dead animals in here?” she cried out.

“No, honey, there’s no dead animals in there! Drink up!” Forcing a smile, Kat turned to Kyle. “Sweetheart, you didn’t tell me your friend was a vegan. I would have made something else,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I’m okay, Mrs., uh, Camero,” White reassured her. “I’m kinda hungover, so I’m not superhungry, anyway.”

Kat shot Kyle a scathing look that was all “Are you serious, bringing
that
home?” Kyle knew that look well. She aimed to please every Sunday night, inviting over whatever hookup, friend, or total stranger, male or female, was bound to shock her mother the most. (Guests were part of the Sunday Nightmare Dinner tradition.) Last week, it had been the sixteen-year-old daughter of a hotel magnate, who had a reputation for hooking up with older, married men. (Kat had seated her
far
away from Beau.) The week before, it had been a homeless teenager Kyle found in Griffith Park. Unfortunately, Kat had screwed things up by actually feeling sorry for the girl, giving her clean clothes and money and finding a social worker to help her. Oh, well.

Of course, Kyle got the scathing look on other days of the week as well. She liked to think of it as a game: new and exciting ways to Piss Off Mom. Who deserved it. Sometimes the game got old, but mostly it was entertaining. It was definitely better than trying to get along with her, like Kyle’s ass-kissing sisters.

Speaking of . . .

“Mommy and Beau, did I tell you? My friend Simone said there’s a job opening at her PR firm!” Kamille bubbled. “It’s part-time, and it doesn’t pay very much. But she gets to go to the coolest parties, and she meets all these celebrities, too! I was thinking I might apply.”

“I thought you were going to take singing lessons so you could be the next
American Idol,
” Kyle reminded her. “Oh, no, that was
two
Sundays ago. Last Sunday, you were going to move to New York City and intern for some nobody fashion designer you friended on Facebook.”

“Okay, Kyle, you know what? Fuck. You,” Kamille snapped.

Kat glared. “Kamille, please! Language! And, Kyle, could you be a little more supportive of your sister?”

“Yeah. Just because I don’t have my whole life planned out like Miss OCD,” Kamille said, casting a sideways glance at Kass.

Kass frowned. “Uh, thanks?”

Kat turned to Parker. “What Kamille means is, Kass is doing so well at USC! She’s about to start her junior year there, and she’s double-majoring in business plus film and television!” She turned to Kass. “And, sweetie, did you know that Parker graduated from Harvard in June? With a degree in geology?”

Gag!
Their mother was so obvious about fixing up Parker with Kass, it was painful. On the other hand, Kass
did
need to get laid, so points to Mom for trying, even though on a scale of one to ten, the chemistry between Kass and Parker was about negative two.

“Yeah, I remember you were into rocks in kindergarten, too,” Kass said to Parker without looking at him. “I think you threw one at my new tricycle and dented the handlebar.”

“Oh, right, that was funny!” Kamille giggled.

Kass whirled around and punched Kamille in the arm. “It was
not
funny, I loved that tricycle!”

“Hey, that
hurts
!”

“Not as much as this!” Kass leaned over and yanked on Kamille’s hair. Kamille did the same to Kass. What were they, three years old? They started laughing, although there was an edge to their laughter.

“Who wants some dessert?” Kat said brightly. “It’s lemon cake! We always have it, because it was David’s—the girls’ father’s—favorite,” she explained to White.

“Cool. Is it vegan?” he asked.

“Actually, it has a couple of eggs in it,” Kat replied.

“Eggs, yeah . . . my friend calls them ‘chicken periods,’ ” White remarked.

Kat gasped. Beau put his hand on her arm, probably to keep her from totally losing her shit.
Awesome.
Kyle reminded herself to bring White to these dinners more often.

“We’ve got some sorbet in the freezer. I’ll bring that out for our guest White here,” Beau said hastily. “Benjy, honey, you want to help me clear?”

“Sure, Dad.” Benjy, who had not said a word during the entire dinner, pushed back his chair and stood up. Kyle scrutinized him. He had been her stepbrother for almost four years now, and he still remained a mystery to her. Sure, she hadn’t exactly bothered to be friendly to him. But why should she? They had nothing in common, other than the fact that they were both juniors at Wesley Eastman Academy. He was a straight-A student and in general a big, fat nerd who was always reading books or rehearsing lines for his dumb drama club. He and Bree lived with them except when they were in Brentwood with their mom. Unless the mom happened to be away at an ashram or in rehab, which was kind of often.

“I never touch dessert because I have to watch my girlish figure,” Pippa said, winking at White.

Okay, enough of the Cougar Show. “Come on, I didn’t give you a tour of the house yet,” Kyle said, grabbing White’s hand.

“A what?”

“Come on!”

“Be back here in five minutes for cake,” Kat ordered Kyle.

“Can I go with you, Ky?” Bree begged.

“No, Brie Cheese. You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Or not. Once in the hallway, Kyle tried to think of where she could take White that would have the most impact when Kat came looking for them. They could skinny-dip in the pool. Or they could go upstairs and make out on the parents’ bed. Despite his freakish tattoos and raccoon-colored hair, White wouldn’t be
too
repulsive to touch. Would he?

“Hey, what’s this?” White was staring at an ancient photo of Beau on the wall.

“What? Oh, that’s just Beau,” Kyle said dismissively. She glanced down the hall. Her mother had recently bought an Oriental rug for her home office. Maybe
that
would be a better place to get down and dirty with White?

Kyle turned to him, smiling provocatively and touching his chest. But he seemed to have lost interest in her all of a sudden. “Dude, your dad’s Beau
LeBlanc
?” he burst out. “This picture’s from the World Series, right? From like twenty years ago?”

“Beau is
not
my dad,” Kyle said irritably. She tugged on White’s arm. “Hey, you wanna—”

“Do you think he’d sign my shirt?” White said, hurrying back to the dining room. “Fuck, man! What’s it like having a famous baseball player for a dad?”

“He is
not
my dad!” Kyle repeated. But White was already gone.

Crap!