Some Like It Hot (7 page)

“Did you eat already?” Maddy asked him eagerly. “Not that it matters, because I can only eat, like, one shrimp. Seafood kind of yucks me out anyway. Fish go to the bathroom in that water; think about it.”

Jack grinned at her. Her long dark hair had frizzed up from the humidity, she wasn't wearing any makeup, and she was very pale. Her clothes were clueless, too—baggy carpenter pants with an even baggier sweater, those curves of hers completely hidden. That was kind of sexy, in a way. The way she looked right now, other guys would walk right past her. Jack could imagine how a smart guy, a guy with a discerning eye, could go for that.

“What can I get you from the bar?” Jack asked Maddy. “It'll take forever for a waitress. Believe me, I've been watching.”

“Just a Diet Coke.”

“Coming right up,” Jack promised. “Anna? Ben?”

He got their drink orders—a beer for Ben, a cranberry juice for Anna—and cut through the crowd back toward the bar again. Someone had put Roll Deep's “Let It Out” on the jukebox, causing a surge of dancers to make their way to the tiny dance floor.

You'd like it here, Margie.

He was thinking about his little sister, Margie. She loved to dance.

Margie's real name was Marguerite, after some long-dead relative. Jack had been six when they brought her home from the hospital, bundled up in a pink blanket with yellow elephants on it—funny how he remembered that—and his ma had insisted they all call the new baby by her full name. Jack immediately told his two little brothers that they should call her Margie, and Margie it was.

Jack was the oldest. Everyone in his family listened to him. In fact, people in general listened to him. He was smart, savvy, and a born leader who, when the situation called for it, knew exactly how to manipulate pretty much anybody and make them like it at the same time. Maybe that was why he loved reality TV; it was the star-fuck of manipulation.

Jack intuitively understood how reality TV worked by setting people against each other. He got how producers chose footage that would invent a story arc—a villain to hate, a hero to root for, influencing viewers into giving enough of a shit to tune in week after week. It was the same thing for every show.
American Idol. Big Brother. The Amazing Race. Survivor.

Jack sucked down some of his brew; the TV mounted over the bar caught his eye. The sound was off so it wouldn't compete with the jukebox, but it was a
Survivor
rerun marathon from the Australian Outback season. They were up to the movie-star-looks-Texan-aww-shucks-sure-I'll-let-the-little-lady-have-my-million finale. Margie loved the movie-star-looks Texan and would kiss the TV whenever he was on. Two things she loved: dancing and reality TV. No, three things. Jack. She loved Jack.

It really pissed him off when people called her mentally retarded. Brain-damaged was a totally different thing. Margie was now thirteen, but usually she acted like a three-year-old and only talked baby talk. Other times, though, she could read a simple book or even add numbers. There were tests to figure the whole thing out, for sure, but Jack's parents couldn't afford to get her those tests. Instead, his mom went to Our Mother of Mercy three times a week and burned candles for her daughter, as if the good Lord was going to suddenly undo what had happened to her.

Shit. His family was worthy of its own reality-TV show.

Margie went to a special school paid for by the state of New Jersey, but in Jack's opinion, the school sucked ass. His parents couldn't afford one of those private schools where the privileged sent their brain-damaged kids so they could actually learn something and do things for themselves and have some kind of decent life that didn't involve sitting in a living room watching reality TV all the time.

If not for him, Margie would have been very lonely. His brothers were always studying or playing video games or running around with their friends. His parents were always working. But Jack could always do his homework inside of an hour and ace every test; he didn't really give a shit about running around with other kids, and video games bored the hell out of him because they were pointless. Plus, the sight of Margie sitting there, rocking herself, glued to
America's Next Top Model
or whatever, made his chest ache. He'd watched with her, and he'd gotten hooked, too.

He glanced around. No one else cared about what was on TV. They were too busy being richies, with their Bass Weejuns and Sperry Topsiders and jeans they paid double for if they were pre-ripped at the knee; faded Lacoste shirts, English tropical worsted jackets, London-made silk rep and club ties.

Not that he had anything against money. He loved to daydream about just what he'd do when he was finally making his own show and making the chip. Move his parents out of their Jersey City row house that needed a new paint job, for damn sure. Dad could quit his job at the Newark freight yards; no more coming home dog tired and covered in soot, dirt caked under his finger-nails, with nothing more to look forward to than the same damn thing the next day. His ma would quit, too. No more overnights with that old buzzard she worked for, Mr. Millar, with his emphysema and his diabetes. He owned half the tenement blocks in Jersey City but lived in a mansion in upper Montclair. No matter what, Jack vowed, no matter how much money he made in “the industry” (as they called it out here), he'd always remember where he came from.

He got the drinks and a tray and carried them through the crowded bar back to the table. Everyone thanked him profusely. He sat down, but then Maddy ducked her head under her own arms like she was shielding herself from flying shrapnel.

“What?” Anna put a hand on Maddy's forearm. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh,” the girl muttered. “It's just that my—”

“Madeleine? Is that you?”

Jack watched Maddy cautiously lift her head as a man in his twenties—dressed in the worn jeans/faded tennis shirt combo of most of the patrons, with blond hair parted on the side, a strong nose, and round rimless glasses—bounded over to the table. Jack thought the guy looked like Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, if Reznor had worn glasses and had blond hair.

“Hey, how's it going?” the guy asked.

Maddy muttered something and looked as if she were trying to shrink inside the collar of her sweater.

“I'm Brian Tarantella,” the guy introduced himself. “Maddy's math teacher at Pacific Palisades High School—the kids call me Mr. T. Madeleine's one of my best students.”

Maddy half-smiled but didn't speak. Jack gazed at the math teacher intently, wondering what he would do or say next. He remembered how weird it was to run into one of your teachers outside of school—it was almost as though you couldn't believe that your teacher had an actual life.

“So, what are you and your friends up to tonight, Maddy?” Mr. T asked.

“Oh, you know …” Maddy studied the floor as if searching for the Holy Grail among the oyster cracker crumbs.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to stop over and say hello, Madeleine. See you in class, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

The teacher took off to rejoin a group of people who were just leaving.

“I never had any teachers who were that handsome,” Anna told Maddy, who still looked wildly uncomfortable.

“You think?” Maddy wondered aloud. “He's … okay. And I still can't do trigonometry.”

Sam lay on her new California king bed with its silver-poled, lattice canopy and stared at the far wall. It was after midnight. She was wearing a set of old sweats from Harvard-Westlake, where she'd gone to junior high school, her most comfortable clothes for thinking and writing. Down the hall, she could hear one of the night nurses cooing in Russian and realized it had to be time for a Ruby Hummingbird feeding. God forbid that her young and annoying stepmother, Poppy, would get up and feed her own kid herself. Instead, there was a round-the-clock battalion of wet nurses to do it for her.

The far wall was Sam's normal workspace, where her antique Italian desk and classic Eames chair would usually be flanked by contemporary artwork that had been given to her father by movie studios and agents but that Jackson didn't want in his personal gallery. Sam loved the Alex Katz paintings especially—so disaffected and removed.

But now the artwork was gone, along with all the furnishings. In their place she'd had Kiki bring in four enormous Corrasable whiteboards, which Luis the handyman (he'd worked for the Sharpes for years and drove a Mercedes CL500 coupe to prove it) had fastened to the wall five feet off the ground. Sam had already taped dozens of colored index cards—blue for ideas, green for production notes, and plain white for shot sequences—to the whiteboards.

Only an idiot would make a serious movie without figuring out the sequences in advance; Sam had grown up so steeped in moviemaking that she would not let herself make that rookie mistake, no matter how much of a pain in the ass it was to do the index-card thing.
Hate it, but do it anyway.

An idea struck her; she got up and filled out one more blue index card, then taped it to one of the white-boards:

FIND HOME MOVIES OF OLD BHH PROMS FOR CONTRAST?

Hmm.
That could be good. But she didn't get the usual rush that came with a great creative idea. Instead, she just felt depressed. And her stomach growled. A hot fudge sundae would be heavenly. However, it would not make picking out a prom dress a hap-hap-happy moment.

Maybe gum would help. She reached for the pack of Trident cinnamon sugarless on her nightstand and accidentally knocked over the small framed photo that Eduardo had given her in Paris—the two of them at the Eiffel Tower. She righted the picture and sat on the new white silk-and-lace quilt that adorned her bed. The facts of her life stared at her as clearly as any index card on the wall, resulting in her current funk: Eduardo had not called since she'd returned from Paris. Five days had passed. Anna could say whatever she wanted to say about how much Eduardo liked/loved/adored her; he evidently didn't like her well enough to pick up the god-damn phone.

Her stomach growled again. Why did she get the hungriest when she was feeling like crap? Visions of Porcelana chocolate from Amedei, the most expensive chocolate in the world, danced in her head. Her father had mentioned in an interview with Diane Sawyer that he loved the stuff, and fans sent it by the truckload. Sam knew exactly where he kept his copious stash. Her shrink, Dr. Fred, would say, “Sam, when you're feeling bad, does it
really
make you feel better to stuff your face with sweets?”

Hell, yeah, it made her feel better.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve-fifteen. Eight-fifteen in the morning in Paris. Eduardo was awake for his international relations class. Was there some French sex kitten named Françoise in his loft bed next to him? Sandrine? Frederique? Valerie? Corinne? Chantal? Mariel—?

The phone on her nightstand rang.
Crap.
Had to be a wrong number. Everyone knew to reach her on her cell. She answered, barking into the phone. “What?”

“I woke you up, I can tell from your voice.”

Sam bolted upright.

“Eduardo?” she asked cautiously, heart pounding.

“Go back to sleep, Samantha, I can call you tomorrow—”

“No, no, don't hang up! I mean, I wasn't asleep, I just didn't expect you to call on this line.”

“Yesterday, I left my backpack on the Metro. My cell, my Palm Pilot. Laptop. It made me crazy. Then I recalled that in Mexico, you wrote all your phone numbers for me on a napkin. So … I found the napkin.”

Fact: Eduardo had wanted to call her, but he hadn't been able to. Fact: He'd actually
kept
the napkin from Mexico.

“I'm glad you found it,” Sam said. It was an insipid comment, but she was too ecstatic to worry about it.

“I missed the sound of your voice very much,” Eduardo murmured. “I miss you even more.”

She felt like doing a happy dance around her room. His voice sent chills up and down her spine. And his accent was pure velvet. “I miss you, too.”

“So, tell me everything,” Eduardo prompted. “How are you?”

Sam launched into a monologue of what she'd done since returning from Paris. Then Eduardo talked about his classes, a dinner with his cousins from Barcelona at Le Taillevent, a wonderful French film she should see.

Sam was only half-listening, because she was figuring out exactly how she wanted to ask him to prom.

“And the love scene was so intense,” he concluded, “I thought of you.”

The love scene made him think of me? For chrissake, just ask already.

“So Eduardo, I was wondering,” she began, hands suddenly sweaty. “In America, we have this stupid thing called ‘prom,’ which is—”

“A formal party for high school students,” he filled in; there was a smile in his voice. “I live in a different country, Samantha. Not on a different planet.”

“Right. Of course. Silly. So …” She took a deep breath. “The Beverly Hills High School prom is Friday night. I know that isn't much notice, but I'll be there making a documentary, which you might find interesting, and I'll totally understand if you can't come because it's too little no—”

“Tell me about your film.”

Sam couldn't help noticing a distinct lack of the words
prom, yes,
and
love to
in that request. Still, she gave him a two-minute rundown on the documentary, putting it in the best possible light. She even managed to sneak in a couple of her hottest ideas, like how she'd have an assistant film the prom weenies—she didn't call them that; she called them the prom organizers—as they went through their pre-prom-day routine and that she was planning to give walkie-talkies to some of the professional hotel staff so that she could be summoned instantly in the event of a meltdown. What the hell. Maybe he'd be dazzled by her creative genius.

“Impressive,” he remarked. “So, will I be in it?”

Wait, did that mean he was going to be at prom? As in,
be with her
at prom?

“You mean … you'll come to my prom?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, of course.”

“I'm so happy!” Sam gushed into the phone, unable to contain herself.