Just Like Me, Only Better (6 page)

But Kitty is torn, the reasons for her ambivalence expressed repeatedly by the cranky Jason Katz: “Med school is a full-time thing. Even sleeping is optional. If you can’t make a total commitment, you shouldn’t even be here.”

Instead of telling Jason Katz to go to hell, Kitty turns her misty eyes down and forces a smile. In return, Jason taps her on the cheek and says, “Hey, I believe in you.” The cheek tap is meant to convey sexual tension, but there’s something about the Katz—his stiff dialogue? his smug expression? the refusal to shed the white coat, even at the restaurant?—that’s just yucky.

Real sexual tension doesn’t appear until season two, when leather-loving Cassandra introduces her boyfriend, Chase, to Kitty. Chase is played by the dark-haired, dark-eyed, sweet-yetsmoldering Brady Ellis.

“Yow!” I said, leaning toward the TV to get a better look.

“Mommy, I can’t see.”

I leaned back, my eyes still glued to the screen. “Smokin’,” I murmured.

“Chase” wore soft blue jeans, a form-fitting black T-shirt, and black high-tops, a guitar slung over his shoulder. His smile revealed bright white teeth and boyish dimples. He had a shy gaze and a habit of sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Mommy, why are you breathing funny?”

(Oh, my God—I was actually panting.)

I hit the pause button. “Eight o’clock. Time for bed.”

“I just want to watch to the end.”

I stood up. “C’mon, buddy. We had a deal. Get your jammies on.”

“I didn’t get to watch
Ninja Turtles
. So I get to stay up later.”

“Says who?”

He batted his pale eyelashes, put his hands together and flashed an angelic smile. “Pleeeeeease.”

“Brush your teeth and get your jammies on. Then you can watch to the end. But you’re going to bed the minute this is over, understand?”

Three episodes later (I am such a sucker), Ben finally went to sleep, and I slipped
Beverly Hills Bling
into the DVD player. It was a made-for-TV movie, broadcast on the Betwixt Channel, the same kids’ network that produced
Kitty and the Katz.

This time around, Haley, in the role of perky, fresh-faced Joanna Judd, has once again moved to L.A. from flyover country (Wisconsin, this time), but her ambitions have shifted. Forget medicine—Joanna Judd wants to be a star! Not because she’s, like, narcissistic or anything—she’s just trying to fulfill her mother’s dream. Her dead mother. Who sang like an angel, her talent unappreciated out on the dairy farm. (In one flashback, we see Mama Judd singing to her cows.)

Once in L.A., Joanna needs to support herself, so she gets a job at Bling, a high-end Beverly Hills jewelry store, even though she sounds and looks like a total hick. The store owner, a fat, bald guy who’s supposed to be funny but isn’t, appreciates her “authenticity.”

Enter Travis Trayworth (Brady Ellis) and his girlfriend, Chelsea Davenport (the actress who plays Cassandra, minus the leather and black eyeliner). Travis is a college student majoring in education. Chelsea is a viper, but Travis doesn’t see that because he assumes everyone is as kind and genuine as he is. Travis’s father is a benevolent Hollywood bazillionaire, which is why he can take Chelsea to Bling to pick out a diamond tennis bracelet for her birthday. (Which begs the question: what is a tennis bracelet, anyway?)

Ninety minutes later, Joanna has Travis’s love
and
a recording contract. It doesn’t really matter how she gets to that point (there was a very long society party sequence). I found the movie remarkably inane and predictable, and if not for Brady Ellis, I wouldn’t have sat through it even once. Instead, I watched it three times, finally falling asleep on the couch sometime around two o’clock, dreaming of Hollywood.

 

 

 

H
ello?”

“Yes, good afternoon. This is Rodrigo Gonzo, Miss Haley Rush’s assistant. May I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Veronica Zap, please?”

“This is Veronica Czaplicki.”

Dead silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“Can you spell that last name, please?”

I did.

“Right. Mr. Jay Sharpie, who is Miss Haley Rush’s manager, requested that I contact you regarding your meeting scheduled for this Monday with himself and Miss Rush.”

“Yes,” I said. “I need directions.”

“May I ask where you will be coming from?”

“Fullerton.”

Silence. And then: “May I ask where that is?”

“Orange County. Just north of Anaheim.”

More silence. And then: “I will have to get back to you.”

 

 

“Hello? ”

“Yes, good afternoon Miss . . . Veronica. This is Rodrigo Gonzo again, calling regarding Monday’s meeting with Miss Haley Rush and Mr. Jay Sharpie. Mr. Sharpie has asked that I arrange to meet you somewhere mutually convenient, after which I will take you to meet Miss Rush. Perhaps I could pick you up in Calabasas?”

“Calabasas is two hours away from me.”

“Yes, but I need to pick you up away from L.A.” He lowered his voice. “We can’t let anyone see us.”

“Why not just come to Orange County?”

Pause. “Mr. Sharpie mentioned your familiarity with Hermosa Beach. Perhaps that would be a mutually convenient destination?”

“Hermosa Beach is in the wrong direction.”

“Pasadena?”

“It’s in the other wrong direction. Look, why don’t you just pick me up someplace off the highway? In Santa Fe Springs, there’s a little Mexican place in a strip mall right before the I-5 on-ramp.”

Pause. “I am not familiar with Santa Fe Springs.”

“It’s in L.A. County.”

“Okay, then.” He sounded nervous.

 

 

“Hello? ”

“Yes, good morning, Veronica, this is Rodrigo Gonzo calling about your meeting today with Mr. Sharpie and Miss Rush.”

“Right—I was just about to leave. Eleven o’clock at El Taco Loco, right? And you’ll be driving a green Prius?”

“Yes. I mean no. Mr. Sharpie sends you his deepest apologies, but he is forced to reschedule due to a last-minute conflict.”

“Oh.”

“Tomorrow okay? Same time, same place?”

“I guess.”

 

 

“Hello? ”

“Yes, good morning, Miss Veronica.”

“Is this about today’s meeting?”

Sharp intake of breath. “Mr. Sharpie sends you his deepest apologies, but he was called out of town unexpectedly. He is sorry to inconvenience you and was hoping that we could try again on Friday.”

“Try again?”

“Reschedule.”

“Which is it?”

“Heh-heh. We appreciate your humor and your understanding. Eleven o’clock sound okay?”

 

 

“Good morning, Miss—”

“Rodrigo? Don’t tell me you’re canceling again.”

“Mr. Sharpie is deeply, deeply sorry for the inconvenience, but—”

“I have a job. Another job. A real job. And this is three times that I’ve missed work for nothing.”

“Mr. Sharpie and Miss Rush sincerely look forward to dialoguing with you at your earliest convenience.”

“My earliest convenience is now. Today. You know what? Just forget it.”

What was I thinking? That I’d really get paid a hundred dollars an hour to go shopping and get my nails done? The first rule of life: when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

 

 

“Hello? ”

“Veronica? Jay Sharpie.” So he did know how to dial his own phone.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about canceling our meeting. Honestly. Sincerely sorry. I had to fly to Rhode Island to discuss the next generation of Haley dolls.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s try again.”

“I’ve already missed three days of work, Jay. Trying isn’t good enough.”

There was some crackling on the line. “We won’t reschedule again. You have my word.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Really—any time. Whatever works best for you. We’ll be there. I promise.”

“Fine.” I am such a wimp. “Monday morning. Ten a.m.”

Pause. “Monday’s out. How about Tuesday at noon?”

 

 

 

H
ello?”

“Yes, good morning, Veronica. This is Rodrigo Gonzo—”

“You’re canceling our meeting.” My voice was flat.

“What? No. Of course not!”

“Really?”

“I just wanted to confirm our meeting place. Eleven-fifteen at . . . El Taco Loco?”

“Yes! El Taco Loco—right. It’s in a strip mall just off the freeway. They have really good carnitas, if you’re hungry.”

Dead silence. And then: “I don’t generally eat lunch.”

 

 

I parked outside El Taco Loco, locked my van, and went to stand in front of the smudged glass front door. The dirty air rumbled with freeway sounds.

My cell phone rang: Rodrigo. Damn it. I knew he’d cancel.

“Yes?”

“I’m here.” He sounded tense.

“Where?” I scanned the lot until I saw a hand waving out of the window of a green Prius. “Okay, I see you.”

I shut my phone and crossed the cracked asphalt. I tugged once on the handle before Rodrigo popped the lock. I slid into the car and he locked it again.

Rodrigo Gonzo was exactly what I’d expected, only in miniature: dark hair cut short, gelled into perfect place; sunglasses on the back (not top) of his head; buff, hairless arms; brown eyes with thick black lashes. His blue jeans were faded, his beige T-shirt tight. Even seated, I could see that he was at least an inch or two shorter than me (I’m 5’4”). He weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds.

“You found it okay?” I said.

“You’re really going to leave your car here?” he asked without answering my question.

“Sure. Why not?”

He raised his eyebrows.

I forced a laugh. “I don’t think any car thieves are going to bother with a five-year-old Dodge Caravan.”

“Good point,” he said with a little too much conviction.

The minivan had been Hank’s doing. Ben was a year old, and my car, a ten-year-old Camry from my parents, was giving out. I’d been eyeing Volkswagen station wagons and Honda CR-Vs, debating the merits of each. But when I came home from the playground one Friday afternoon, there was an enormous red minivan parked in front of the house.

“Who’s here?” I asked Hank, who was sitting at the kitchen table, watching TV.

“Just us.”

“Then whose van is that?”

“It’s yours.”

I didn’t ask him why he’d bought me a car without consulting me first. I didn’t ask him why he hadn’t traded in the Camry. The only thing I could think of was: “How’d it get here? Your car is in the driveway.”

“A guy from the dealership drove the van. I thought you’d be excited. You said you never had a new car.”

“I am excited.”

All I could think was: why so big? Of course, now I needed the van to drive the Mott kids. Maybe Hank was just thinking ahead.

“Are we going to Haley’s house?” I asked Rodrigo.

He shot me a side glance. “Didn’t Jay tell you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes. We’re going to Haley’s house.”

“Okay. And . . . where does Haley live?”

He shot me another look. His lips tightened. “I’m not authorized to tell you.”

“Unless you’re going to blindfold me, I’m going to figure it out,” I joked.

He bit his lip, as if considering. Dear God—was he really considering a blindfold? And then I remembered Rodrigo’s size: I could take this guy.

“Beverly Hills,” he said finally.

“Oh. Of course.” I thought about Ben and the Mott kids, who would be waiting for me after school. Beverly Hills was pretty far away. “I’ll need to be back at my car by two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty . . . today?”

“Um, yeah.”

He pursed his lips. “That may be difficult to accommodate.”

 

 

Most people associate Beverly Hills with money, stars, and glamour. Southern Californians associate it with traffic. To get there, Rodrigo drove on the I-5 freeway from horribly congested Orange County to ridiculously crowded Los Angeles. As always, the traffic stopped and started to its own inexplicable rhythms. Once we reached the city, we veered off onto the I-10 Freeway, Rodrigo’s little green Prius engulfed in a canyon of loud, smelly trucks, along with a swarm of jacked-up pickup trucks, towering SUVs, and testosterone-powered sports cars. Next to us, a gray-haired man in mirrored sunglasses drove an Audi convertible with the top down, all the better to bask in the sunshine and carbon monoxide.

We picked up speed briefly before stopping dead. The dashboard clock read 12:03. I had three hours to get back to the elementary school.

When the silence became unbearable, I asked, “You from L.A.?”

“Tucson.”

“What brought you out here?”

“The entertainment industry.” He put on his blinker, and snuck into the next, faster lane. Traffic stopped immediately.

“Are you an actor?” I asked.

“Screenwriter.”

“You wrote a screenplay? What’s it about?”

His mouth tensed with indecision. I couldn’t read his eyes because he had moved his sunglasses from the back of his head to his nose. Finally, he told me. “It tells the story of an artistic young man from Arizona struggling against the constraints of a conservative Mexican-American family.
My Beautiful Launderette
meets
Real Women Have Curves
.”

“I haven’t seen those movies,” I admitted.

Even through his sunglasses I could detect disgust.

Finally, we lurched off the freeway onto surface streets, working our way past boutiques and restaurants and many, many stoplights before climbing a long, leafy hill.