Just Like Me, Only Better (31 page)

Tuesday I ran into the former Pamela Drucker as I was walking across the blacktop. She was wearing pale pink capri pants, silver sandals, and a white sweater. A pink Coach bag swung from her shoulder. Her blond hair was highlighted so perfectly it made my Haley extensions—and Veronica roots—look especially trashy in comparison.

She stopped in her Joan & David tracks and stared at me.

“Hi, Pamela.” I kept walking. Wasn’t Ken back from Mount Whitney yet? Had she really spent four days with her children?

“I thought you’d gone away with Ken,” she said.

Oh, of course. I shook my head. “There’s this woman who looks a little like me.”

“He was supposed to be back today,” she said. “But last night he left me a message saying he’d be gone until the weekend. It’s a long drive up here from Newport Beach,” she added, as if Ken’s absence were my fault, even if we weren’t dating. But of course—it kind of was my fault.

“I bet,” I said, with a lame approximation of empathy.

“This shared custody thing isn’t easy, is it?” She shot me a conspiratorial smile.

“No, it’s not.” I hurried away before I could say anything I might regret.

And then I went home and bleached my roots.

 

 

Thursday morning Hank called to ask me to lunch “so we can talk.” We met at the Cheesecake Factory, where we had to wait fifteen minutes to be seated. Hank clutched the buzzer and gazed up at the faux Italian murals on the high ceilings while I feigned interest in the cheesecake display.

When we finally got a table—about three inches from a family of four (harassed and overweight mother, detached and tattooed father, two small, squabbling children)—I spent a long time studying the selections even though I already knew what I wanted. Finally, I closed the fat menu and put it on the table.

“Fish tacos?” Hank said.

“Always.”

In spite of everything, this old familiarity sparked pleasure inside me. Who else could name my favorite thing at the Cheesecake Factory?

“And you’ll be getting the fish and chips,” I said.

He stacked his menu on top of mine. “Actually, the orange chicken. Darcy turned me on to it.”

So much for the spark.

He tapped his thick fingers on the table. “Ben tells me that you went into L.A. on Saturday night. With him.”

“It was actually Beverly Hills, but—yeah.”

He fiddled with his fork. “He said you got all dressed up. And that there was a man. Some kind of manager. And then he said . . .” He abandoned the fork and reached for his water glass. He took a long, long drink.

Finally, he continued. “He said a car came for you. Something fancy. And he stayed alone with this man, this
manager
, for about an hour until you came back.”

“They made pizza,” I said. “And played checkers. It was all very wholesome.”

“There is nothing wholesome about what’s going on here.”

Oh, great. Ben told him I was impersonating Haley.

“I’m just trying to make ends meet,” I said. “And build a better life for Ben.” I considered making a crack about his sugar mama but decided against it.

“You have an education—you can get a regular job. And to bring Ben along, to involve him in this disgusting . . .” He was so angry, he was actually shaking.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Ben spent an hour in a very nice house in Beverly Hills. He had a wonderful time.”

“Wonderful. Right. While you’re out selling yourself.” His face was bright red.

The waitress chose that time to show up to take our order. When she saw our faces, she said, “I’ll come back later.”

I was all set to blow up and play the infidelity card when I realized what he was saying.

“Oh, my God. You think I’m a
prostitute
?”

The cranky parents at the next table stopped yelling at their children and turned to stare. Hank looked like he was going to cry.

I burst out laughing and kept going until my stomach hurt and tears ran down my face. Finally, I calmed down and patted my face with a nonabsorbent polyester napkin.

“Are you . . . a dancer?” he asked.

That set me off again.

Finally, leaning over the table and keeping my voice low, I told him the whole story. Well, okay—I left out the episode at Bar DeLux. Actually, I left out everything to do with Brady.

“But why didn’t you just tell me that from the beginning?” he said.

“I signed a contract saying I wouldn’t tell anyone. But now the secret’s out, so I don’t think it matters.”

The waitress, looking a little nervous, came back and took our orders. For an instant, I thought Hank would order the fish and chips, but he stuck with Darcy’s favorite orange chicken.

The waitress was about to leave when she hesitated. “Can I have your autograph?” she asked me. “I have a little sister, and . . .”

“Sure.” I took her pen and pad and wrote
Veronica Czaplicki
.

When she left (looking really confused), Hank asked, “Were you tempted to write Haley’s name?”

“Not really. I can do her signature, though. Wanna see?” I pulled a pen and scrap of paper from my purse and scrawled a perfect signature with a fat heart. “Keep it,” I told Hank. “It might be worth something some day. Though I doubt it.”

He left the paper sitting on the table. “I’m glad—really glad—that your job isn’t . . . you know. But I’m still concerned about Ben. He’s just not himself. Crying a lot, kind of clingy. Doesn’t want to have friends over. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Well, I have. That’s exactly how he acted when you left.”

Hank gnawed on his bottom lip and didn’t say anything. As usual, my moral victory felt empty.

“It’s over, anyway,” I said. “I just took the job so I could make enough money to move.”

“I thought you liked it at the Motts’. They’ve got the yard and the pool, and that cute little house. . . .”

“We have to ask permission to use the yard, we almost never get to use the pool, the house is too small for two people, and Deborah is a bitch. And her kids are awful. They’re kicking us out, anyway, so it’s a moot point.”

The lunch had been much more fun when Hank thought I was a hooker.

“I wish you’d said something sooner. Darcy can help you find something.”

I nodded, feeling grateful and defeated in equal measures.

We were quiet for a long while, sipping our water and staring at nothing. The waitress brought our meals. Reflexively, I pushed half to one side of the plate: I’d take it home and eat it for dinner.

“You were never happy,” Hank blurted.

I blinked at him.

“I’d come home from work and ask how your day went, and you’d tell me how many times Ben had cried and how much laundry you’d done and what you didn’t like about the house.”

“I was just making conversation.” Conversation with Hank had never been easy. How was your day? Do you think it’s going to rain? I hear they’re building a new Target. Do you think we should try planting tomatoes?

“I felt like I should be able to fix everything,” he said. “Your mood, the leaky faucet, the weather.”

“I never expected you to fix the weather,” I said, attempting levity.

“The thing is, the more you expected from me, the less capable I felt. And the cheerier I pushed you to be, the more depressed you got.”

“I was never depressed until you walked out.” My throat swelled.

“You weren’t happy. And when I . . . walked out . . .” He paused, having spoken words he generally avoided. “I’m not going to say I did it for you, because obviously I didn’t. Darcy . . . I hate to say she
completes
me—” He paused to laugh at the lame movie reference. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “But we bring out the best in each other in a way that you and I never did.”

“Um, Hank? I was feeling crappy before I got here, and, frankly, this isn’t helping.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” He took a deep breath. “You’re young. You’ll find someone.”

I hate it when people say that.

“You deserve the kind of love that Darcy and I have. And I want you to know that Darcy and I will support you. If you need to switch weekends or have us take Ben for an evening, we’re happy to do it.”

I nodded.

“Is there anyone in your life right now?” he asked.

“What—you mean a man? Nobody.”

“Really? That’s too bad. Because people keep saying you and Ken Drucker are going out, and I always thought you’d be good together.”

 

 

Back at the little house, my answering machine blinked. Stefano had called.

“Veronica, my sweet, my darling, my pussycat—I haven’t seen you in a lifetime. But I’ve seen some pictures of you, and oh! My! God!”

He saw the sex tape. Oh, crap.

“You cannot walk around with our roots showing like that! Cannot, cannot!”

I called him back. “I’d love to have you do my hair, but to be perfectly honest, I can’t afford it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll do it for free. Monday work for you?”

“Really?” I was touched.

“Well, free-ish. I expect some good gossip in exchange.”

I laughed. “I’m rolling in that.”

 

 

Late Friday morning, I capped off my week with a visit to the principal’s office. I wore my brown turtleneck dress because it was the most professional looking thing I owned. Bad choice: it was already over eighty degrees outside. The heat sweat paired with my anxiety sweat. I’d need another shower after this.

Gayle Fisk was on the phone when I peeked in, but she motioned me to take a seat in one of the hard guest chairs. Her walls were covered with school awards and student art: trees and flowers fashioned from ripped construction paper.

“You’ve come about the job,” she said when she got off the phone.

“Yes.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, but it’s too late. I called you, but . . .”

“I know. It’s my fault.”

“There are other openings in the district. I’d be happy to put in a good word.” She had said this before. Usually I said no: I had to stay with Ben. Things had to be perfect.

“I’d really appreciate that.” It was time to make a new life for myself and Ben—a life I chose and made, not just one I fell into.

 

 

Afterwards, I lingered in front of the school, waiting for the lunch bell. When it finally rang, I strolled over to the lunch tables, which were outside under an enormous roofed structure. When Ben sat down by himself, my stomach began to hurt, but it wasn’t long before he was joined by Carson, Tyler, and several other kids I didn’t know.

“Hey, Benji. Hey, guys.”

In the past year, I’d spent so much time subbing that Ben wasn’t surprised to see me.

“Dad make you that lunch?” I was trying to see what was in his Ninja Turtles lunch box without looking like I was trying to see.

He shrugged. “Darcy did.”

“Oh. How nice. What did she make you?”

He peered inside and rattled off the contents. “Cookies . . . Cheez Whiz crackers . . . Goldfish . . . gummy bears . . . and Diet Coke.”

“But what’s the main course?”

“The Cheez Whiz crackers.”

“Can I have one of your chocolate chip cookies?” Carson asked.

Ben handed him a plastic bag. “You can have them all. I don’t really like them.”

I was still steaming when I ran into Nina, coming out of a classroom.

“I was helping out with math lab in Mrs. Bayati’s class,” she said, as if I had accused her of something.

“Darcy made Ben’s lunch today. Cheez Whiz and Diet Coke. That’s the healthy part.”

She smiled but still looked guarded.

“Anyway,” I said. “Hank’s got Ben this weekend, but we’d love to have Carson over next week. I’m not working in L.A. anymore, so I’ve got plenty of time.”

“About that L.A. job . . .”

I flushed. My armpits were soaked.

She said, “I got my hair done earlier this week.”

“It looks nice.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She rolled her eyes up at her head. “A little shorter than I like, but it’ll grow. Anyway, while I was under the dryers I read some magazines—all the trashy ones, you know, about Brad and Jen and Brad and Angelina, and whatever. And there was this, um, section. About fashion. Like, it showed celebrities wearing really fugly outfits and then it said, ‘What was she thinking?’ or ‘Bad idea,’ or something like that.”

I knew where this was going.

“There was this picture of Haley Rush. She was going to a film premiere and wearing this really stupid cowboy outfit.”

She stopped. I met her eyes.

“Those were your knees,” she said.

“My
knees
?” I had to laugh.

“Yeah. They’re kind of square.” She reached down and pulled my brown hem up a couple of inches to reveal my, yes, square knees.

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s sweet.”

“So afterwards I went home and did a search of Haley Rush’s photos. Her knees are round. And so finally I checked YouTube, and there was this really blurry tape outside a nightclub. The way the girl tilted her head, the way she walked . . . it was you.”

I nodded.

Her eyes bore into me. “I just need to know one thing.”

A pair of little girls skipped past us, waterproof lunch boxes swinging from their hands.

“Yes?” I said.

Nina grabbed my arms and squeezed so tight it hurt. Her eyes bugged out and her voice pitched with excitement. “Did you really bag Brady Ellis?”

 

 

 

O
n the way home from the school (I’d stayed for another forty-five minutes to fill Nina in on some of the highlights of my life-as-Haley), I took a detour.

Haley’s yellow truck still sat in Ken’s driveway, only now it had company: Ken’s Ford Explorer. I may have ruined Haley’s career (of course, she’d messed it up pretty well even without me), but I had helped her find love. She’d been thrust into the limelight at far too young an age, but it wasn’t too late for her to build a normal life.