Messy (6 page)

“My shift doesn’t even start for another five minutes,” Max protested, clasping a hand to her stinging lobe. This gig was getting more Dickensian by the minute.

“I prefer you here fifteen minutes beforehand, which makes you ten minutes late,” Dennis said smugly. “And that means you mop the bathrooms. Congratulations. I
hope your tardiness was worth it. Now, doors open in four minutes. Be fast, be polite, and push the veganami.”

The first five hours of Max’s shift passed in a blur of shrieking, sobbing, and sweat. Dime Piece turned out to be a garden-variety brat who just wanted to trip up all the servers, ordered his bottled water decanted into an empty Sprite can before being poured over ice in a glass, and actually tried to tie Max’s shoelaces together while she was taking orders from the thirteen adults in his posse, whose chief concern was encouraging his repellent behavior. Fans alternately mobbed him and the counter; by the time Dime signed his last CD and left, half the chairs in the place were upturned, Fu’d was out of veganami, and the cops had come to escort away a grown woman who slapped a nine-year-old girl she thought had cut in line.

Unbelievably, it went downhill from there: On their break, Dennis made them all learn how to brew a protein shake that had the texture of cake frosting and the taste of chicken teriyaki, which Max knew would lead to her bingeing on a giant Chipotle burrito full of revenge meat on her way home. And then, before she could even retie the kerchief keeping her sweaty, matted green hair off her face, Max had to work the afternoon rush, which was predictably full of people she didn’t want to see.

“Kermit, you look like a wet lawn,” Chaz Kelly boomed. “Gimme a bratwurst with sauerkraut and a Dr Pepper.”

He threw some money at Max’s face before plodding over to a table with his friends.

“Okay, so what are you going to give him this time?” Jake Donovan asked.

Max could hear the smile in his voice, but as she lifted her head to return it, she saw him standing next to a stone-faced Jennifer Parker. It was all Max could do not to groan in her face.

“Notwurst with toham shavings and a Colon-Eze Tea latte,” she said instead. “You should probably stop coming here with him. It’s only going to get worse.”

“Good advice. I’ll take one of those notwursts, though, but just with ketchup.”

“No, Jake, they’re too greasy,” Jennifer said, shoving in front of him.

Jake looked annoyed. “I can order what I want, Jen.”

“Not if you enjoy my company,” she said.

Jake seemed right on the verge of giving the sarcastic answer Max had already formulated for him in her head, but instead he just muttered, “Fine.” Max watched him slink to a table next to Chaz and fish his phone out of his pocket. This Twitter fight would be epic.

“Um,
hello
, I’m still here,” Jennifer said, snapping her fingers in front of Max’s eyes. “Get him a baked sweet potato, and give me a fakon-lettuce-tomato sandwich on wheat, minus the wheat, hold the fakon, and absolutely no tofunnaise because I’ve got a really important audition in an hour and that stuff makes people’s breath smell like cardboard.”

Max ignored that. “So basically you want a piece of
lettuce and a slice of tomato on a plate? Maybe just order a salad.”

Jennifer narrowed her eyes. “Jake only talks to you because he feels sorry for you, you know. We all do. Because you’re so…” Jen cast her eyes up and down Max. “
You
know.”

Max drummed her fingers on the counter and tried to keep calm. “Will that be all, Jennifer?” she asked. “That’s nineteen dollars and sixty-eight cents. It’s ‘Buy Two, Get One Public Emasculation of Your Boyfriend Free’ day.”

Jennifer handed her some cash with a sneer. “No tip for you,
Kermit
,” she said.

“I have one for you, though,” Max said. “Don’t blame the tofunnaise for your breath.”

Jennifer turned purple. “I want to speak to the manager!”

Dennis burst out of the kitchen, ready for battle. Jennifer started yelping about Max’s insubordination, and the whole room seemed to slow down as Dennis alternated between trying to appease Jen and yelling at Max, jabbing his finger violently in the vicinity of her nose.

“… and you will apologize to this lovely young customer, and then I swear to God, McCormack, you will spend the rest of the day regrouting the urinals,” Dennis was ranting. “And you won’t be getting paid a cent.”

Something inside Max snapped. She gazed at Jennifer’s smug face, then back at Dennis’s frothing visage, and broke into a beatific smile.

“That’s illegal, Dennis, you sycophantic slime,” Max said.

This stunned Dennis into silence.

“And another thing,” Max continued. “You can take this job and shove it up your tofunnator. I’ll expect my last paycheck in the mail, or else I will report to the food safety inspectors that you only clean your liquefiers once every two weeks.”

Max ripped her apron off, balled it up, and threw it square at Dennis’s face before sailing out the door to a round of applause from half the restaurant. As she unlocked her canary Chevy, she dug out her cell phone. If her dignity had to have a price, it might as well be a high one.

“Molly?” she said when her friend answered. “Is Brooke with you? I need to talk to her about something.”

“ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?”

“Of course not,” Max said, leaning over to peer at the nude patent-leather pumps on her feet. “These shoes are like three sizes too big for me. If I wear them tonight I will crack my skull.”

“You know I’m not talking about the shoes,” Molly said, sliding off her luxe king-size bed. It was so tall, she had to hop the last inch or two to the floor. “Are you really okay with working for Brooke? You can be honest, I won’t be offended. I
have
met her.”

Max had been asking herself the same question. She’d spent the last few years trying to avoid people like Brooke, and now she was supposed to
become
Brooke. Already their partnership was a roller coaster. When Max finally
reached her the other day, Brooke had spent way too many of Max’s precious, limited cell minutes explaining that she’d already interviewed several better candidates who understood the power of a four-inch heel. Max got in only one word before Brooke swerved and announced that having a blogographer she already knew and trusted—or, Brooke then clarified, whom
she
knew and
Molly
trusted—would involve a much more gentle learning curve. They hung up, and five minutes later Brooke called back and asked Max if she would consider a “quieter” hair color; ten minutes after
that
she’d phoned to tell Max her first assignment would be Saturday night, following Brooke through the eighteenth birthday party of a mega-famous tween actress-turned-singer (who, if the press was to be believed, hadn’t ever drunk anything stronger than Gatorade;
yawn
). So far being a blogographer was like dating, but without any of the good parts—if Brooke had been a boy, Max would’ve broken up with her immediately.

But,
the salary
.

“I think… it will be okay?” Max attempted, easing herself down into the carpet. “I mean, you shared a room with her without killing her in her sleep. Surely I can hang out with her for a few hours.”

“We survived being roommates, but that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to be back in my own space,” Molly said, relocating to the overstuffed red armchair in the corner of the room.

Max couldn’t blame her. At her own house, noise reigned:
If it wasn’t sirens roaring up Highland, it was her father’s power tools or her mother’s loud phone calls with pushy parents and harried teachers. By comparison, Molly’s room—high atop Brick’s giant brick and marble colonial mansion—felt like a spa. It was a third-story sanctuary painted a soothing dusty blue, much more relaxing than Max’s frenetic paisley. The space looked straightforward but was somehow full of comfy nooks to sit and read, or do homework, and there was a towering antique bookshelf crammed with leather-bound tomes that Max could swear were first editions. Brick had obviously tried really hard to make it perfect. It also got fantastic light from several picture windows and a glass slider that led to a giant terrace that stretched the length of the house. Before becoming friends with Molly, Max had never ventured this far though the gates of Bel-Air—or indeed, through them at all—and she couldn’t believe how lush and quiet it was, almost as if they were a hundred miles from a city instead of two minutes from UCLA.

Max kicked off Molly’s insanely high shoes and lay back on the carpet, digging in with her fingers. “I might be a little nervous,” she admitted. “I haven’t written anything for publication before. And Brooke hasn’t told me what she wants me to do yet. She just keeps yammering about
absorbing her essence
.”

Molly rubbed at the upholstery with her thumbnail. “I am concerned this is going to end with a straitjacket.”

Max spread her hands helplessly. “I need the money,”
she said flatly. “I’m never going to make this much cash this fast unless I start working the pole or something. And I think we can all agree that would be
way
worse for my mental health.”

“Well, it’ll be nice to have you there tonight. I feel so weird at these parties,” Molly said with a wince. “Remember the one Brick threw for me when I moved here?”

“Where you got totally wasted?”

“By accident!”

“And then passed out.”

“A little.”

“And then photos of Brooke beating your comatose body ran on every gossip blog in town.”

“She was more pointing and laughing—”

“
Details
,” Max said in her best Brooke impression.

Molly laughed. “I see your point. Compared to that, tonight should be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah, just as long as you stay away from the bar,” Max teased.

The intercom on Molly’s landline buzzed angrily.

Molly grinned, punching the button to put the caller on speakerphone. “You rang, milady?”

“Is Max with you?” Brooke barked. “We only have two hours to get ready for this party, and I am very concerned that she’s not treating this with the necessary gravitas.”

Max made a gagging motion.
I’m not here
, she mouthed.

“She’s sitting right next to me,” Molly chirped. “Do you want to talk to her?”

Max bugged out her eyes and mimed choking herself.

“Or better, why don’t I just send her across the hall,” Molly said, stifling a laugh. “I know she’s really eager to get going.”

“Please do so,” Brooke said superciliously. Then she paused. “Thanks, Mol,” she sang before hanging up.

Max unsheathed an imaginary dagger, reached around herself, and pretended to plunge it into her back.

“And I thought Brooke was the drama queen,” Molly said, kicking at Max’s leg with her Converse. “Go get bloggy.”

“You people and your made-up words,” grumbled Max, reluctantly picking herself up off the carpet and stretching. “Fine, I’ll go, but only because she’s paying me to.”

“You do realize you’re quoting
Pretty Woman
, which makes you the prostitute.”

Max stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Unintentional. But appropriate,” she said. Then she faltered. “I won’t make an ass of myself, right?” she said, unconvincingly. “I mean, no one’s going to read this thing.”

“Damned if they do, damned if they don’t, huh?” said Molly perceptively.

Max crossed the hall toward the imposing door with the pink velvet “B” charm hanging from the doorknob. She had never been in Brooke’s room. Actually, she’d never been in most of the other rooms in Molly’s house, because there were about fifty of them, and she was
always afraid she’d accidentally walk in on Brick getting his back waxed or something.

She raised her hand to knock. The door burst open before her fist could even make contact.

“Let’s get down to business,” Brooke said.

Brooke’s pink room was as vivid as Molly’s was calming. There was a small sitting area near the TV, a workout station in the area Molly’s stuff once occupied, a king-size bed dressed to coordinate with the walls, and a wing chair by the window. Framed memorabilia dotted the walls: pictures of Brooke as a kid with Brick, a magazine advertorial Molly had said featured Brooke’s mother’s once-famous hands, and a program commemorating Brooke’s star turn in
My Fair Lady
. It appeared to be autographed by Brooke herself.

“Now,” Brooke said, clapping. “Let’s start with the obvious issue. What are you going to wear tonight?”

Max glanced down at her camouflage cargo pants and an old Cal Tech tee dating from when her father worked there. “This? Does it matter? Nobody will be looking at me.”

Brooke burst into laughter that slowly died once she saw Max wasn’t kidding. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. No one is going to believe you’re just a friend of mine if you’re dressed like a day laborer,” she fretted. “Moxie Stilts might not even let you inside.”

Max deployed her best “What have I done?” face, until
she remembered Molly wasn’t there to appreciate it. Sarcasm could be so lonely.

“What does Moxie Stilts have to do with your dad, by the way?” Max asked, running a hand idly over a framed shot of seven-year-old Brooke at a movie premiere. Brick had barely aged. Brooke had no front teeth.

“Daddy wants her to be in the new ABC Family show he just sold,” Brooke said, bodily relocating Max’s hand to the wall and rubbing the glass frame with a baby wipe. “He’s such a mogul.”

“What’s the show?”

“
Kamikaze Dad
,” Brooke said. “He left the script in the printer last week. It’s about a man named Stone Stuttgart”—here, Max swore she saw Brooke’s eyes roll—“who inherits a daughter from the middle of nowhere, who constantly goads his other daughter by doing things like refusing to fix her bangs—”

“Some
slight
editorializing there, maybe…” Max murmured, flopping into Brooke’s pink wing chair.

“—and then he saves the day through unconventional parenting,” Brooke finished. “He said last fall he was going to do it, but I didn’t think he was serious. He also once told me he was going to do a show about a hand model who abandons her family and then loses her arms in a bar fight, and that never happened.”