Playground (13 page)

side, slanted to the left, upside down, while others sit upright,

tilted to the right.

Like a good physician, Dad keeps everything on hand: Valium,

Percocet, Halcyon, Xanax, Demerol, even Quaaludes. There’s one

bottle for each of his girlfriends. Unlike the girls themselves, the

bottles are all unique.

I’ve heard about them. I know what they’re for.

I steal handfuls of pills: Xanax so I can sleep without night-

mares and Halcyon to forget that I can’t sleep at all.

I shut the cabinet doors and hurry back down the hallway to

my bedroom. I pop a few Xanax and get back into bed.

After school, I sit at the desk in the den with my books and

homework scattered in front of me. Carmela brings me a tray of

fruit as I watch
Santa Barbara
and pop a Xanax.

My high school tutor arrives and I sit with her in the den show-

ing her my homework. We begin an English assignment until I re-

treat upstairs to take a few more Xanax from my father’s medicine

cabinet. When I return, my tutor intermittently listens to the dramas

in my life as she continues to write my papers. When she is done, I

thank her profusely and tell her to send us the bill. She leaves, and

Carmela yells from the kitchen that my friend Liz is on the phone.

Liz invites herself over and brings Hunter with her. Liz is fun,

tomboyish, and easygoing. She likes to mix up her punk look with

splashes of high fashion. Today Liz wears pink Doc Martens boots

with a pair of shiny black leggings and an Yves St. Laurent blouse

she’s tied in a knot above her belly button.

Hunter is a strikingly blond, blue-eyed teenage actress. She’s

much more feminine and loves candy wrapper dresses and strappy

Candies in an array of sorbet colors.

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

We sneak outside and smoke a fatty on the tennis court.

“Is your dad ever home?” Hunter asks. Liz hands me the joint.

“Dude, we could have some killer parties here.” Liz exhales as I

take another hit.

“Totally. Major ragers.” Hunter looks around the spacious

backyard.

I agree, coughing.

“Killer bud, huh?” Liz asks and I nod, turning purple.

“My neighbor down the block grows the best chronic. He’s al-

ways giving me free shit. He deals,” Liz explains.

The French doors open and out comes my father, shirtless and

wearing white tennis shorts.

“Oh shit!”

We panic and scramble to hide the bud.

Hunter flips her hair with her hands. Liz squeezes Visine drops

into her eyes. I hyperventilate, trying to get the pot smell off my

breath. We pretend to laugh, looking and pointing at nothing in

the trees as he waltzes over.

“Hi, girls.”

“Hi, Dad. This is Liz and Hunter, friends from school.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Dad says and extends his hand confi-

dently.

I can tell by the look in his eyes that he likes Hunter.

“What are you girls doing?” he asks.

“Just hanging out,” I answer, annoyed by his apparent attrac-

tion to her.

“Are you an actress?” Dad asks.

“Yes,” Hunter smiles.

“Do you have an agent?” he asks.

“I’m meeting with a few different people,” she answers.

“You should give me your head shots. I’ll send them over to

Aaron Spelling—he’s a personal friend,” Dad brags, looking her up

and down.

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Playground

I’m dying of embarrassment. Why doesn’t he just ask if he can

fuck her?

Dad smiles at Hunter one last time.

“Call me at the office. Jennifer has the number.”

Invisible fumes shoot from my ears as I pull my friends into

the house and away from the lecher.

After they leave, I bump into my father in the upstairs hallway.

I decide not to bring up the fact that he humiliated me in front of

them and that, by lunch tomorrow, everyone will know he’s a total

perv.

Instead, I ask if I can have people over Friday night, knowing

he probably won’t be home anyway. He tells me he’s going to Ve-

gas, but says Carmela will be around if I need her.

His confidence in my ability to handle myself makes me for-

give him for his inappropriate behavior. I second-guess myself,

thinking I blew the whole thing with Hunter out of proportion.

At school the next day, Liz, Hunter, and I high-five each other

in the halls as we pass out flyers. It’s all about Friday night.

We hire two bartenders and a DJ and borrow a couple off-duty

security guards from the Mansion. I wrap a few strands of

sparkling lights in the trees and sprinkle fake snow on the tennis

court. “I Want a New Drug” by Huey Lewis and the News screams

through the outdoor speakers.

I greet guests at the front door in a silver bobbed wig and pass

out vodka-infused Jell-O shots. Hundreds of people stroll in,

decked out disco-style.

Girls in black off-the-shoulder leotards and short-shorts strut

in, their faces and necks coated with glitter. Guys wearing layered

Izod shirts, ribbed tank tops, and ripped Levi’s slap each other

high-five.

A large group comes through the door at once. As I place a

Jell-O shot into someone’s hand, I recognize a bracelet and in-

stantly pull back. It’s my sister.

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“Savannah? I’m so glad you came!”

I hand the plate of Jell-O shots to Hunter. Savannah and I em-

brace. We walk into the study.

“Rad party. Is Dad here?” she asks.

“Yeah, right. He’s gone for the weekend and I’m in charge of

regulating recklessness. Be careful, there’re tons of older guys here.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle myself.” Savannah smiles.

She appears remarkably poised while sitting on the brown

leather chair. She easily looks like she could be in high school. I

hear a glass break in the other room.

“I have to go play hostess. We’ll catch up later?”

An hour later, amid the dense mass of bodies, I notice Savan-

nah with a cocktail in her hand talking to a junior. As I pass her, I

take the cocktail away. “You’ll handle yourself a lot better without

this,” I whisper.

Liz grabs me, pulling me into a clandestine meeting in the

pantry. Michelle, Sonya, Hunter, Liz, Amber, and I gather around

as Quaaludes are dispersed and water bottles are passed around.

Liz pulls me aside ten minutes later suggesting we pop another.

The effects of the first pill haven’t kicked in, so we figure, Why not?

Ten minutes later, we do it again.

One more Quaalude and I’m out. There are no nightmares, no

worries, and no memories whatsoever.

When I wake up the next morning at ten, I’m surprised to find

a random guy passed out in bed next to me. Replaying the night, I

vaguely recall flirting with a senior on the baseball team at Har-

vard High. There’s soreness in between my legs that I’ve never felt

before. Throwing the covers back, I stumble out of bed and step on

a rubber.

Images of him penetrating me flash through my mind. I re-

member the pressure of his body, the tightness between my

thighs, and gritting my teeth. I didn’t want him to know it was my

first time.

For a split second I am bummed that I have lost my virginity to

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Playground

a random guy I don’t know. But I rationalize it, telling myself that

I was bound to lose it eventually.

I slip on a robe and stare at the stranger in my bed.

I have to get this guy out of here.

“Hey, buddy, get up. It’s time for you to go,” I say, echoing a

phrase I’ve heard my father use.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Excuse me, whatever your name is! You’re going to have to

leave now.”

The guy scratches his head, barely conscious.

Downstairs, I hear Carmela shriek at the top of her lungs. She

must’ve just arrived. Her footsteps pound in my head as she ap-

proaches my bedroom. She stands in the doorway in a state of

shock.

“Jennifer, your father would be furious if he saw this mess! I

have to clean or we both going to be in big trouble,” she rambles.

I nod at her, excusing myself momentarily so I can go puke in

the toilet.

My parties become a huge hit, their reputation traveling to all the

private and public high schools: Uni, Harvard, Westlake, Mary-

mount, and Brentwood.

Most of the kids who come graduated Beverly years ago. I am

suddenly in “the know,” the bad girl with the attitude and wild rep-

utation. Invites to all the lavish parties, club openings, and hottest

restaurants are all at my fingertips. I no longer need to approach

anyone, return phone calls, or even smile. As a sophomore, I am be-

yond It girl status. I am an L.A. socialite and have become an infa-

mous high school legend.

At one point, I’m chilling on the third-floor patio with my Ray-

Bans, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, Keds, and a string of green, black, and

pink plastic bracelets up and down my arms. Kids try to schmooze

me, dropping hints about parties they’ll never get invited to.

“There’s a huge bash in Aspen this weekend. It’s definitely the

place to be,” says a guy while passing a dime bag to a friend.

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“If Jennifer’s going to be there, then definitely,” says a guy with

spiked red hair, loud enough for me to hear.

I walk down the steps, blowing smoke in their faces. “Little

children,” I say, flicking my Marlboro Light at the guy with red

hair. “You have no idea what these parties are about. Nothing’s

happening in Aspen. Robert Downey Jr. and I are kicking it here

this weekend,” I say with a smile, fucking with them.

86

Eight

Life becomes more exciting when I get my driver’s permit and

Dad buys me a red Mercedes convertible to practice with. He

doesn’t mind that I’m only fifteen; in fact, he think’s it’s ridiculous

that I have to wait, especially since I’m such a good driver.

After school, friends jump in and we cruise the front of Beverly

High singing along to the Go-Gos’ “Our Lips Are Sealed.” I get a

huge adrenaline rush while shifting the gears of my new car. Most

of my same clique of friends from elementary school are glammed

out in culottes, crop tops, and scrunch boots. We paint our faces

with Chanel makeup, hold cigarettes between our fingers, and

perch our arms out the windows.

At Pastels for blended daiquiris, the maitre d’ greets us warmly

and escorts us to our usual patio table.

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“Hello, Ms. Saginor; so nice to see you again. You just missed

your father. Should we put this on his house account?”

“That would be great, Alfredo,” I say, giving him a peck on the

cheek.

After Pastels, we hit the Polo Lounge for more blended

daiquiris and then whiz over to Bistro Gardens for chopped salads

and a refill on the patio.

“It’s almost seven; I have to get going,” Hunter says.

“Dude, you are not going home yet,” I say, exhaling smoke.

“I have to. My mother will kill me if I’m not home for dinner.”

“Me too,” Liz confesses. “We eat at seven-thirty.”

“You guys are not bailing? That is so lame. Just chill, have

another drink. Call your parents, and tell them you’re going to be

late.”

I motion to the waiter to bring us another round.

“All right, one more.” Hunter sits back down.

“I wish I didn’t have to go home,” Amber sighs.

“You’re so lucky your parents don’t care about dinner,” Sonya

says enviously. If only she knew how dark and lonely my life has

become.

I chug the last few sips of my cocktail as new ones arrive.

We stumble out of Bistro Garden seeing double of everything.

We hug each other, blow air kisses, and say our good-byes for the

night.

Later that night, Carmela serves me dinner. I sit alone in the

living room, remembering dinner at my mother’s house and Sa-

vannah kicking me under the table while she giggled.

“Have dinner with me,” I say softly. “I’m not even hungry.”

“I have so much work to do before I leave. You know how your

father wants everything just right,” Carmela insists.

My tutor arrives an hour later and Carmela carries a plate of

beautifully garnished desserts into the den for us to nibble on. The

tutor works on my homework until I get bored watching her, and

I head upstairs to make a few phone calls. When my work is

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Playground

completed, my tutor leaves and my father’s house becomes very

quiet. I hate the silence.

I take a second look at the note my father leaves me every day

in the upstairs hallway.

“I’m at the Mansion,” it reads. “Come up if you want.”

Gin night, Monopoly, movie night, fight night, Sunday

backgammon, or any other night, I know where to find him.

Maybe if Dad and Hef were lovers I would understand why he de-

votes so much time to him.

I can’t sit still. My ADD is in high gear and my anxiety shakes

me from my daiquiri coma. I’m wired, scattered. I debate watching

TV, reading, writing, and taking a walk. I organize and reorganize