The Nannies (8 page)

16

Esme lay in Junior’s arms and tried to ignore the hip-hop pounding through the thin wall that separated Junior’s bedroom from his living room. But it was no use. The sound system’s bass made the bed vibrate; the volume was so loud that Esme was sure they could hear every word in Fresno.

“I hate that music,” she said, nestling into Junior’s muscular chest. “Why do you let them listen to it in your house?”

“You know why, Esme.”

She did, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Junior had worked endless overtime and borrowed money to purchase the small bungalow on Allison Avenue in the Echo. Members of his old gang, Los Locos, knew it meant they always had a place to go. His rules were strict: no drugs and no weapons. But it still meant that at least two or three Locos were always crashed out in the living room. Esme and Junior rarely had any real privacy.

What’s more, the whole Echo knew that Junior’s was a Los Locos house. Junior had installed bulletproof glass in the front windows. Every time a car backfired, Esme jumped.

Junior craned his neck to read the clock radio on the scarred nightstand. Esme knew it had to be close to five o’clock, which made her heart clutch. She was due back at the Goldhagens’ home, with all her gear, at six. Their driver had offered to wait for her or return to pick her up.

But Junior wanted to drive her himself, maybe to prove that he wasn’t intimidated by Bel Air. Her suitcase was already in his car. But she had little inclination to go. Moving to the guesthouse would make afternoons like this a thing of the past. The Goldhagens had made it clear to her: no male visitors. Besides, the thought of living in that foreign land made her throat close up. She didn’t belong there and she never would.

“I changed my mind,” Esme muttered. “I’m not going.”

“Yes,
chica,
you are.” Junior sat up and reached for his jeans.

She shook her head stubbornly. “Why would I want to clean up after some rich Anglos?”

“You’re not their maid, Esme, and you know it.” As Junior pulled on his T-shirt, Esme saw the triple lightning bolt on his muscular forearm, the sign of Los Locos. There was another tattoo that she’d designed and inked across his back—her own name, entwined with thorns and vines.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not me.”

He pushed into his Pumas. “For two weeks, you can try it.”

Why was he pushing her? It was not the reaction she had expected; she’d been sure that Junior would be angry with her for leaving the Echo.

“You go, Esme.” He sat on the bed again. “Here, I worry about you every moment that I’m not with you.”

She folded her arms. “I can take care of myself.”

“The hell you can.” He grabbed her arm, too hard. “This is not a game,
chavala.
There’s bad shit going down between Los Locos and some badass boys from Pacoima. I don’t want you to be a part of it.” He rose, stuffed his wallet into his back pocket, and strapped on his watch. “Get up. We have to go.”

Esme stood, dragging the sheet with her. “I’m not one of those stupid sheep, okay? Don’t treat me like I don’t have a brain.”

Junior turned, eyes blazing. “Then stop acting like you don’t have one. Esme, this is a chance for you.”

“A chance for
what
?”

“To make some money, go to a decent school. Have a
vida
that’s not completely
loca
!”

Esme narrowed her eyes and remembered something her friend, Jorge, had said to her. “I can have a life without selling out, you know. Jorge already got accepted early decision to Cal on a full scholarship.”

“You aren’t Jorge, Esme. His father is a public defender. Your father doesn’t even speak English.”

Esme took another tack. “Why should I move to that place when you wouldn’t even set foot on their property? You—”

“Basta de cuentos!”
Junior made a sharp “that’s enough” gesture with his hands. Then his voice softened. “Look, I understand you’re scared. But you can’t let that stop you.”

“Like hell I’m scared! I just—”

“You’re going. If I have to drag you into my car, you’re going. Get dressed.”

Junior slammed out of the room. Esme sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in the sheet that still smelled of him. If she had been the type of girl to cry, this would have been the moment. But that hadn’t happened since before the day she’d helped to murder her cousin Ricardo; she wasn’t about to start now.

But she still bit her lower lip. There was only one reason Junior would treat her this way: he didn’t love her anymore.

17

“What time is it?” Mrs. McCann asked as she checked the latch on Kiley’s suitcase.

“Five.” Kiley stood before the dresser mirror, brushing her hair before putting it up in her usual ponytail. Screw A.M. if she didn’t like the way Kiley wore her hair. A.M. was not going to decide who the nanny would be.

“We have a few minutes,” Mrs. McCann went on. “Is this outfit okay?”

Her mom wore orange-sorbet slacks and a yellow-and-orange-print summer-weight sweater, with big yellow plastic earrings and necklace. The La Crosse Kmart ensemble made Kiley wince. Then she was ashamed of herself.

“It’s nice, Mom.”

“My watch is a little slow,” Mrs. McCann said, resetting her Timex to synch with the antique clock on the marble mantel. She scanned the living room to make sure she hadn’t left anything. “I looked in my room, under the bed, in the bathroom . . .”

Kiley grimaced. She was nervous about the elimination, so her mother was getting on her nerves even more than usual. In exactly fifteen minutes the contestants were to meet in the hotel’s club room, where A.M. would announce which five were still in the running for
Platinum Nanny.
She knew she’d done well at the mouth-to-mouth event, but she also knew Platinum’s reputation for flightiness. Why not get America talking by sending her home?

Please don’t let them eliminate me.

“What if our clock is slow, Kiley?” her mother asked. “What time does your watch say?”

“Five. Did you take your kava kava?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, sweetie,” her mom assured her.

From past experience, Kiley knew that wasn’t true. Every time she’d thought that her mom had overcome her anxieties, they would erupt again, often due to nothing. Still, she didn’t want her mother to feel bad, so she just changed the subject.

“Do I look okay?” Kiley gestured toward her khaki capris and white tank top.

“You always look okay, sweetie,” her mother said. “Which is more than I can say for some of those girls you’re up against.” She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. “Evidently they never heard of leaving a little something to the imagination. We should go now, just in case. I’ll call the valet for our—”

“Done. I did it when you were in the shower.” Kiley had been told that all the contestants’ luggage would be held in the lobby while A.M. made the announcement. Then, the cameramen would follow the loser on the walk of shame to retrieve his or her bags, and then to the shuttle bus to the airport. The loser would be on the first flight out.

“We don’t want to be the last ones. Maybe I should have worn a different outfit. Do you think I should have worn a different outfit?”

“No, Mom.”

“I think I should have worn a different outfit.” Her mom’s hand fluttered, fanning her face. “We’d better go, sweetie. Just in case the clock is wrong.”

Kiley nodded to placate her mother but knew they had plenty of time, and she was reluctant to leave the suite. When else would she ever stay in a hotel as beautiful as this? What if all that awaited her was bad news? What if she was about to do the walk of shame and never see Tom again?

Tom.
Why was she even thinking about him? It was ridiculous. So what if he had made small talk with her? It’s not as if it meant anything. That her whole body had felt like mush when he’d shaken her hand was just a hormonal thing. He was a model; he was supposed to make girls feel like that, to sell whatever it was he was selling. He was probably just another shallow, brain-dead, self-absorbed L.A. jerk.

In fact, the only reason she wanted to see him was to prove to herself that she could look him in the eye, shake his hand again, and act normal.

That was all. Really.

The Hotel Bel-Air club room was done in dark leather and mahogany, like something from a British manor house. When Kiley and her mom entered, the other five contestants were already in their director’s chairs, sitting in a semicircle around where A.M. would address them. Tamika’s right ankle was wrapped in an ACE bandage.

Kiley took the last empty chair, on the far left side. Behind the semicircle of contestants was a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall photograph of Platinum, her long blond hair blowing off her face. Steinberg, who was seated to Kiley’s right, leaned over to her.

“You check out Veronique?” she muttered.

Kiley looked at the French girl, who wore a hot pink scoop-necked tank top that displayed her amazing, if unnatural, chest.

“She could put an eye out with one of those things,” Steinberg went on. “Notice how she snagged the center seat. That’s so if A.M. asks questions, everyone else has to turn their head. But she’s always face-on in the camera.”

“I never would have thought of that,” Kiley marveled.

“She’s a bitch,” Steinberg said, “but she’s a smart bitch.”

“Mom? Where’s Mom?” Kiley heard Bronwyn call out.

“Here!” Mrs. McCann waved her hand. She’d found a folding chair near the food service table that held donuts, bagels, and soft drinks.

“Mrs. McCann, Jayce here is going to take you into another room,” Bronwyn went on. “She’ll interview you on camera about who you think is going to be eliminated and why. Then you can watch the elimination on a monitor, and we can get your reaction.”

“Fine.” Mrs. McCann stood, gave Kiley a quick thumbs-up, and left with Jayce. Kiley heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe the kava kava was working.

Steinberg leaned toward Kiley again. “Your mom is such a good sport.”

Kiley was about to thank her when Bronwyn stepped over to the center area. “People, listen up. This is how it will work. A.M. has already recorded her spiel about how this is the first elimination, blah, blah, blah. You all taped your segments this afternoon about how you feel about each other, who hates who, all that. We’ll edit that stuff in. All we’re filming now is the decision of who stays and who goes. If you’re out, you’ll get like two seconds for your tearful goodbyes. Then follow Jennifer— Jennifer, raise your hand.”

A flunky in overalls raised a lackadaisical finger.

“Follow Jennifer to the lobby, pick up your suitcases, go to the courtesy van, have a pleasant life, buh-bye. You can see your magic moment on TV next week. Everyone got that?”

Please don’t let them eliminate me.

A.M. strode into the room in a Ralph Lauren suit, apparently with nothing on underneath—the businesslike sex-kitten look. A flunky hooked the body mike to her lapel as she took her place at the center of the semicircle. The massive photo of Platinum loomed behind her.

Kiley’s stomach lurched. This was it.

“Four, three, two, and—” Bronwyn pointed at A.M., who smiled at the camera.

“Welcome back to
Platinum Nanny.
We’re at our first elimination. As you know, Platinum watched the challenge live and then reviewed the tape. She wants to know that if anything happened to her kids in the water our contestants could save them . . . and look hot in a bathing suit at the same time.”

A.M. grinned and waited for the requisite chuckle. “I have the results in this envelope. If I call your name, you are still in the running for
Platinum Nanny
. Take one of these from me”— A.M. held up a platinum star—“and proceed to the ballroom. If not,
ciao
.”

A.M. waited a pregnant beat, then opened a sealed platinum envelope. “The first contestant still in the running for
Platinum
Nanny
is . . . Veronique.”

The young French woman didn’t look at all surprised as she slid off her stool, took a platinum star, and headed out the door.
Figures,
Kiley thought. Veronique was already a professional nanny. Plus, she had TV-friendly breasts. Four more names.

Cindy Wu.

Steinberg.

Oh God. Kiley felt as if she was going to barf. Now it was just Tamika, Jimmy, and her.

“Tamika.”

The black girl looked stunned; after spraining her ankle, she hadn’t even finished the obstacle course.

“This isn’t
Survivor,
” A.M. explained. “Don’t
ever
assume you know who will stay and who will go, because it’s all up to Platinum.” She eyed Kiley and Jimmy, who was grasping his muscular thighs in a death grip. “Our final possible Platinum Nanny is . . .”

Please, please, please . . .

“Kiley McCann.”

Kiley sagged with relief. Jimmy didn’t bother with goodbyes; he just shuffled off, a camera following him to record his misery. Kiley didn’t feel bad about it, either, because Jimmy was a jerk. Then she hugged a still lingering Tamika, the contestant she felt closest to, and practically danced out of the room. She was one step closer to her goal, Scripps, the ocean. It was definitely worth celebrating. And as much as she loved her mom, watching TV with her in the hotel suite that night was not going to cut it.

Clubbing. With those girls she’d met. Hell, yes. Now all she had to do was convince her mom to let her go.

18

ADOPTION GIFTS

Two bilingual Lizzie dolls with outfits designed by Stella
McCartney. From: Governor Schwarzenegger and Maria
Shriver.

Two remote-control Robosapiens. From: Uncle Ivan and
Aunt Deborah.

Two Discovery Sky & Land telescopes. From: Jennifer
Garner.

Two Lullabye Baby 34-inch Gund stuffed bears. From:
Peter Engel.

Two pink Nanette girls’ faux leather jacket-and-jeans
three-piece sets. From: the staff at Spago.

The list went on, and on, and on. Esme sat on the living room couch of her guesthouse, writing thank-yous to famous people who had already sent adoption gifts to Diane and Steve. Writing to these famous people was surreal, but remarkably boring. Diane had dictated onto a tape what she wanted written. Esme had to listen to the cassette, write it out, and leave space for Diane’s signature. A ten-year-old with neat printing could do what she was doing.

Over the past two days, the gifts had come piling in: it seemed like there was always a messenger’s car or FedEx truck barreling through the broken front gate and up the driveway. There were more than fifty names and gifts on Esme’s list; she’d written six thank-yous so far.

The bird in the old-fashioned cuckoo clock on the wall startled her with its call. But the time was wrong. So Esme got up, stretching a kink in her back, to take it off the wall.

She opened the back of the clock and examined the works— old clock oil had gummed up its movement. She unearthed a bottle of ammonia she’d seen under the kitchen sink and poured a little into a dish. Then she added water, got some cotton swabs and cuticle oil from the bathroom, and carried it all back into the living room.

There, she dipped a swab into the improvised cleaning solution and dabbed at the thick oil, lost in thought. This new life seemed part of an alternate universe. What was she doing in this magnificent guesthouse, writing thank-yous to people she knew from television and in the movies because her boss had told her to do it? Taking a job because her mother told her to take it? Because Junior told her it would be good for her? Hadn’t she always prided herself on her independence?

The clock cleaned and oiled, she reset the time, then returned to the kitchen and poured the leftover cleaning solution down the drain. What was it that
she
really wanted? The only things in her life that were completely her own were the tattoos she designed. How should she go about making her life as much her own as those tattoos? She had no idea, none.

Finally, Esme returned to the thank-yous. But she found it impossible to focus. So she prowled through the rooms of the guesthouse, as moments from her first day on the job replayed in her mind. It had actually gone fine. After their return from the country club, she’d given the kids lunch, then played with them in the newly built sandbox, which was the size of a small desert. Afterward were baths, followed by new outfits from Pampolina: orange stretch-velvet pants and silk-screen T-shirt for Weston, lavender cords and T-shirt for Easton.

After that, Esme had taken the kids for burgers at Mel’s Drive-In. Their burgers were served in cardboard racing cars, which the girls loved. She also ordered them a vanilla milk shake to share, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and two cherries. When the waiter brought it out, the girls just stared. Esme coaxed them to try it. Tentatively, they’d put their lips to the straws. One sip of milk shake and both little faces lit up; they didn’t stop sucking until they’d drained it.

Once they got back home, Esme helped them change into their new Tracey Ross cashmere pajamas, which, according to the price tags that Esme had carefully cut off, sold for five hundred and sixty dollars. The kids fell into bed before eight o’clock, unable to keep their eyes open. But she did coax a “Good night, Esme” from them instead of
“Buenas noches.”

Diane had assured Esme that she’d be home in time to tuck in her daughters. But she called at seven to say that she was running late at Yoga Booty, and Selina would stay with the sleeping girls until she got home.

Esme wouldn’t have minded working overtime. The truth was, she was lonely. And bored. She went to the kitchen and found a box of cereal in the cupboard; someone had thoughtfully put fresh milk in the refrigerator. She ate her bowl of Cheerios standing at the counter, the sound of cereal crunching in her mouth deafening. And then she realized why: it was the silence. All her life, she’d lived on busy streets where automobile traffic rolled by, Latin music blaring from car stereos, and emergency vehicle sirens wailed at all hours. And then there were the police helicopters,
whup-whup
ping overhead, seeking out the latest criminal
del día.

But here in Bel Air, it was absolutely still. No traffic. No sirens. No choppers. Only the occasional chirping of a cricket in the gardens outside. She shuddered. How could she ever sleep in this kind of creepy silence? She rinsed her cereal bowl and put it away. Went back into the living room and wrote a few more notes. When Junior finally called, she would tell him that she was writing damn thank-yous to—

Her cell rang. Esme snapped it open. “Junior?”

A throat cleared. “It’s Mr. Goldhagen, actually. Steve.”

Esme winced. “Yes, sir?”

“I just got back from my office. Diane tells me you were super with the kids today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, that’s great, Esme. Listen, I’m up at the main house. I was wondering, there’s this thing tonight at the Santa Monica Pier. An opening party for a new Cosmos film called
The Ten,
Kirsten Dunst and George Clooney. A courier dropped off a bunch of passes at my office, but Diane and I are staying in tonight. I thought maybe you’d want them. Sort of as a welcome to our family.”

Esme was taken aback. How were passes to a Hollywood party a welcome to his family?

“That’s very nice of you, sir.”

“If you’d like to use them, take the Audi,” Mr. Goldhagen continued. “I’ll put the keys and the passes in the mailbox.”

“Thank you, sir—”

“Steve. Don’t mention it. If you go, eat and drink them out of house and home. I hate those sons of bitches at Cosmos. Hey, Esme?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Ya gotta stop calling me sir. I think you’re talking to my father.” He chuckled and hung up.

Wow. A Hollywood opening-night party. Of course she knew about
The Ten.
Slated to be this summer’s Cosmos Pictures blockbuster, it was about a mysterious revisitation of the ten biblical plagues on Southern California. In the movie trailer, Kirsten Dunst got her foot caught between loose boards on the Santa Monica Pier and couldn’t escape plague number seven, the hailstorm.

Of course, Esme was sure that by the end of the film, Dunst would be alive. It was always the unknowns who got killed off; the famous actresses lived. Would Kirsten Dunst be at this party? Would George Clooney?

Suddenly, Esme felt excited. She had passes to a Hollywood party and a really expensive car to get there. She considered calling Junior. But he would be extremely uncomfortable at an upscale Hollywood event. Then she thought about the two girls she’d met at the Brentwood Hills Country Club. What were their names? Lydia and Kiley. They were probably long gone by now, out at some fantastic club where the music was rocking and the people were rich and gorgeous and no one from the Echo could get past the bouncers.

I can do this,
Esme told herself.
Whatever happens, happens.
She found Lydia’s number on her cell and pressed the “Send” button.