Angels on Sunset Boulevard (9 page)

She'd only stayed for a few minutes, and then she'd had to bail. She didn't want to bump into Sutton again. He'd only convince her to stay.
Give it another chance. Let the Spirit move you.

Just keep talking to the cute boy,
she told herself. He wasn't one of the chosen. He didn't have the password. He didn't make the cut. She wondered why—he was handsome enough, surely. But those were the unwritten rules of TAP. Some people got in; some people didn't. She guessed he was one of those kids who just didn't get it. He was nice enough to offer her a ride home, but she told him all she needed was a ride down to Sunset.

“Oh man,” the boy—Nick (he had a name)—was saying. “I totally forgot. I didn't drive.”

“That's all right,” Taj said. A Bel-Air preppie with no wheels? “You know how to ride one of these?” she asked, finding her board against the wall in the entrance hall. She handed him Deck's Osiris.

“A little. When I was a kid.”

“I'll loan it to you. My friend won't mind. We could skate down the hill, then I could catch the bus home.”

“The bus?” Nick smiled. It occurred to Taj that
he'd probably never heard of anyone actually taking the bus, let alone admitting it.
Well, welcome to my life,
she thought.

“Yeah.”

“I think we can do better than that,” Nick said.

“What are you thinking?” she asked. They walked companionably to the front gate, each of them holding a skateboard.

“Dude, not like that,” Taj said. “You can't hold it like a briefcase.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“Hold it here, by the lip, see? The top of the board?” Taj said, showing him. “Only amateurs hold it to the side, like you're doing. Dead giveaway. I can't be seen with anyone like that.”

“Oh, no?”

“Nope. And don't hold it by the truck either,” Taj said, pointing to the wheelbase. “Only gutter punks do that. It's a board, not a weapon. When you hold it by the truck it looks like you're planning to pound someone with it.”

“Maybe I am.” Nick smiled.
He is really hot,
Taj thought.

“Okay whatever you say,” he said.

They'd made it out to the gravel path when they were stopped at the exit by the same girl who'd been
hanging on Button's arm earlier that evening. Maxine something. The one who'd made that comment about Taj being responsible for Johnny's songs. But the girl wasn't paying any attention to her. She was looking only at Nick.

“Sweetie.”

Taj noticed Nick flinch.

“Maxine.”

“Can we talk?”

Taj held up her hands.
Go ahead. Don't worry about me,
her shoulders communicated. She was cool, although she felt an instant flash of jealousy when she picked up on the tension between her new friend and Button's girl. But really, what was it to her? He was just a boy she'd met that night. Not even her type. Too clean-cut. Too rich. Yes, you could be too rich, in Taj's book. Look at what all that money did to Johnny. None of it good.

“Taj, hold on. Will you wait?” Nick asked, giving her back the board.

Taj gave Maxine a cool up-and-down. Queen CoolGaze indeed. “Only for a minute.”

MAXINE LED HIM TO A QUIET CORNER ON A STONE
bench behind the hedges at the side of the house. “What's the deal with you and Lady ColdFish?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just met her tonight,” he said. “Why do you care?”

“Believe me, I don't,” Maxine retorted.

Nick looked up to see the face he had so recently adored—those almond-shaped eyes, those full, rosebud lips, that upturned nose, that mole by the side of her left cheek; he'd loved that mole most of all—and he felt … confused. Numb.

“Nicky,” Maxine sighed. “Can we talk?”

She traced her fingers on his arm, her touch making his stomach leap in a thousand different directions.

He refused to look at her, but he didn't get up off the bench, either.

“It's all a mistake … there's nothing between us. Sutton … I think he was drunk—he, like, came on to me backstage. It was a mistake. I didn't know what he was doing. You know I'd never do anything like that…. Don't listen to any of the garbage on the Web, baby—I love you …”

Nick shook his head. If she wasn't with Sutton, why was she at the party? What did she want from him?

Maxine placed her hands on each side of his face, “Look at me.”

He did and sighed.

“Don't do this to us.”

For a year now they had been an “us.” He still remembered how it started—they'd just hung out in a group, the guys from the soccer team and the Beverly Hills girls, and Maxine had just been one of them. She was the new girl; she'd only transferred to Bennet Prep earlier that year. Rumor had it she'd grown up in Riverside of all places, and that her mother had remarried very, very, very well.

“Look, I gotta go,” he said, gently taking her hands away. “Maxine, like I told you this evening, we're over.”

“No one dumps me,” Maxine said, gritting her teeth, her eyes narrowing. “No one leaves me, ever. Got it?”

“Well, there's always a first time,” Nick pointed out.

“You'll regret this,” she warned.

Nick shrugged his shoulders. “What's your problem?”

“You know,” Maxine said, her exquisite face twisted in a cauldron of hatred, “Sutton was right about you. You're nobody. You don't even know half of what's going on all around you. I don't even know why I wasted my time.”

“Good-bye, Maxi,” Nick said. “I'll see you at school.”

“I'll see you in hell.”

Nick shook his head. He'd had his share of bitter breakups, but Maxine was by far the most psycho. Why did she even care? It wasn't like she was so into him, after all; she was the one who was cheating. But there were girls like Maxine who could never take rejection. Not even when they had caused it. They believed they deserved to be loved, to have everything in spite of their actions. Or that their actions had no consequences.

He was sick of it. He was tired of being a chump.
The good guy. The one who turned a blind eye to her indiscretions. This time she had gone too far. There was a picture on the Web for everyone to see. His pride had been hurt. And maybe his heart, as well. He wasn't sure. Was it even possible to fall in love at seventeen? He wasn't a cynical guy but he was pretty sure what he and Maxine had had wasn't love.

He walked over to where Taj was waiting patiently. “Everything all right?” she asked, noticing the dark flush on his cheeks.

“Everything's perfect,” he said. “Now, I'm a bit rusty, but you wanna skate down the hill and I'll call you a cab? It's on me. Don't worry about it. Can't have pretty girls like you walking around town at three a.m. by themselves. It's not safe.”

“Pretty girls?” Taj smiled.

“Very,” Nick said, smiling back. Somehow, seeing Taj had taken the sting out of the conversation with Maxine.

She taught him how to balance on the board, and together they coasted down the hill, all the way back to Sunset, where Nick, as promised, called her a cab and gave the driver a twenty to take her home.

“What are you doing next week?” Taj called from the backseat, while Nick stood on the curb.

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“Well, maybe you're having dinner at my house on Friday night. I make a mean
kapusta.
And if you don't know what that is, you'll have the privilege of finding out.”

“Okay, then,” Nick agreed. “I'll call you, at the station.”

“Do that.”

The cab drove off, and Nick stood on the sidewalk, watching until it disappeared over the hill. He felt lighter and more energetic than he had in a long time. He also noticed that his headache was gone. Dinner at her house. Who ever invited anyone to dinner anymore? He couldn't remember the last time a girl had cooked for him. Maxine ate exclusively at restaurants where celebrity presence was guaranteed. If there were no paparazzi idling on the sidewalk, she wasn't interested. Maxine … Nick shook his head. Already it felt as if they had broken up last year instead of just several hours ago.

THE PHONE WOKE NICK WITH A START THE NEXT
morning, bright and early at eight o'clock. It was a shrill, electronic ring which echoed throughout the ten-thousand-square-foot house and bounced off the marble floors.

“Helllo?” Nick grumbled, still underneath his pillow.

“May I speak to Miss Langley?” a crisp voice asked.

“You mean Mrs. Huntington,” Nick corrected. He turned and buried himself under the comforter. He'd forgotten to draw the curtains the night before, and the sun was streaming into his bedroom.

“No, a Miss Langley. A Miss … er … Fish Langley?”

“Fish? Who is calling please?” Nick asked sternly, tossing the pillow to the floor and sitting up finally. Might as well just get up; he'd never be able to get to sleep again, what with the light.

“This is Citibank. If you please, sir, we'd like to talk to her about her account,” the caller said in slightly accented English. Nick pictured a hapless Indian clerk in Bombay reading from a script.

That was odd. They both had debit privileges on their parents' Citibank checking accounts, but if the bank wanted to talk to an account holder, why would they want to talk to Fish?

“Hold on,” Nick said. He pressed the intercom. “FISH! PHONE FOR YOU!”

There was no answer from Fish's room. She was probably ignoring him. It really was too early to deal with anything like this.

“I'm sorry, she's not here right now,” Nick said.

“Thank you very much, sir. We will try again later.”

Nick put the phone back on its base. Maybe the bank was trying to sell something—they always were.

He yawned and decided to take a morning run.

When he returned from a slog up and down the canyon, sweaty and refreshed, he noticed that Rosa,
their housekeeper, had already set up a breakfast buffet in the kitchen. He picked a croissant from the tray and tore it in half, stuffing it into his mouth.

“Hola,”
he said. “Fish come down yet?”

“No, Mr. Nick. No Fish.” Rosa shook her head.

Nick looked at the time. It was only ten o'clock. He'd give the kid till noon, then ask her if she knew anything about Citibank, and what she'd thought of the party the night before. She'd be thrilled to know he'd met Taj Holder—Fish had Web shots of Taj in a series of outfits taped to her wall. Fish was a big MiSTakes fan, and she played Johnny Silver's record around the clock.

Saturday at the Huntington household was usually quiet. If Dad and Evelyn were home, which they weren't, they would be out at the country club by now for a tennis tournament. Nick checked the calendar by the phone. Dad was shooting in the Czech Republic. Evelyn was making a presentation in D.C. on global warming. Neither of them would be home for another week or two.

Thank God for Rosa. If it weren't for the housekeeper, who'd been nanny to both Nick and Fish, they would never have had a real home-cooked meal, let alone someone who remembered to sign them up for dental appointments and pick Fish up from acting class.

Nick made himself a plate of cold cuts and pastries, then took it up to his room.

A few hours later, Eric called to ask him if he wanted to drive up to Malibu for a party. “Man, what happened to you last night?”

“Nothing. I went home.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you missed out.”

“Where were you?”

“You know there's this back room, right? At the party. Dude, I'm telling you, it's crazy in there. You've got to come with me next time.”

“I tried. They wouldn't let me in. Said I needed a password.”

“Oh. Right. Forgot about that. Didn't you get one in your in-box?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward silence.

“What goes on in there anyway?”

“Ah, it's nothing. Nothing to be worried about. I'm sure you'll get the password next time.”

“Hey, did you see my sister in there, by the way?”

“Your sister—you mean Fish?”

“Yeah. I saw her go inside. They wouldn't let me follow her.”

“I don't think I saw her,” Eric said cagily. “It was really dark.”

“Oh. Whatever.”

“So you wanna go to the 'bu?”

“Sure.”

When Nick left for the afternoon, Fish still hadn't emerged from her room. When he returned late that evening, the house was so quiet he decided she'd already gone to sleep. The next day was the same—Nick had to leave early for practice and didn't get home until late after hanging out with the team.

It wasn't until Monday night—three days later—when Fish didn't come home from school, that Nick finally realized something was wrong.