Love at 11 (19 page)

“It’s true,” the guy (Drummer?) said, also crawling out of bed. To my horror, all he was wearing was a pair of ratty flannel boxers with massive holes in some pretty distasteful spots. His legs and chest were pasty white and overly hairy, like those of a scrawny wooly mammoth. How could Lulu be attracted to such a disgusting creature? She was so pretty. She could get any guy. Did she sleep with him? And if so, how could she? In my bed, nonetheless?

“You must be Maddy. Lulu’s told me lots about you.” Drummer (and while we’re questioning, what the hell kind of name was that!?) strode over and shook my hand. Complete confidence. As if he weren’t standing nearly naked in my bedroom. As if he hadn’t just admitted to bringing drugs—prescription or otherwise—into my house.

I could barely control my fury. “Get out of my house. And take your drugs with you.”

“Well, hell, it’s not like I’d leave them here,” he drawled, grabbing a pair of dirty jeans from the floor and hoisting them over his scrawny hips. “Damn, Lu, you were right.”

I could only imagine what he was talking about, what Lulu had said about me behind my back. But at that moment, I didn’t care. I’d be the biggest bitch in the world if I could save my baby sister from trash like that.

After he left, Lulu flopped on the cushionless couch, a sullen expression on her face.

“So, are you mad?” she asked.

I stared at her. “Are you joking?”

“Okay, fine. You’re mad. Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

“Lu, this isn’t like being caught sneaking a beer,” I cried in exasperation. I replaced a cushion—the lone unstained one—back on the couch and sat down beside her. “I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to you.”

“Oh, I see. You don’t care if anything
happens
to me. You just don’t want to be
responsible
.” Lulu snorted. “Typical. Just like the ‘rents.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I scolded. “Stop trying to twist my words.” Man, I hated being the disciplinarian. “Now how long have you been doing Coke—or meth—or whatever that was?”

“It was Ritalin. A legal, prescription drug. And besides, I wasn’t doing it. Drummer was.”

“Bullshit,” I interrupted. “I can tell by looking at you. Your eyes are black—completely dilated. Your hands are shaking like you have Parkinson’s. And you’re grinding your teeth. I can hear them from here.”

“Okay, I tried it. One line. I didn’t even like it.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and pulled one out, as if daring me to say something about her smoking, too.

“So, you’re not going to do it again?” I asked, wanting desperately to believe her.

“Never,” she promised. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” She made the crossing motions with her cigarette, grinning a little. “Stick a needle in my eye.”

“Fine. I’m going to treat you as an adult and believe you,” I said, too exhausted to pursue the subject further. “But if I catch you one more time, I’m going straight to Dad.”

“You won’t. I promise.” Lulu gazed at me with a sincerely mournful-looking expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down.”

Her sad face melted me. Against my better judgment, I held out my arms. “Come here, you.”

I didn’t need to ask twice; Lulu practically threw herself into my embrace. We hugged for what seemed like hours. A serene sense of almost motherly love came over me as I stroked her bleached blond hair. I could do this. I could be a responsible adult and help my little sister through this difficult time.

Maybe it really had been the first time she’d done meth, or Ritalin—whatever it really was. Most likely this event had been Lulu’s way of crying for help. After all, both parents had essentially abandoned her. She was probably feeling confused. Lonely. Unsettled. A rebel with a very legitimate cause. I’d simply keep an eye on her from now on. Step up to the parental plate and make sure she didn’t go down the wrong path. After all, besides me, she had no one. She was a little lost angel with a tarnished halo.

“I know you’ve been going through hell over Mom and Dad’s divorce,” I said, smoothing her back with my hand. “I’m sorry wasn’t nice about you moving in.”

“And I’m sorry I trashed your house,” Lulu replied, sounding a little choked up. “From now on, I’ll be a better houseguest.”

“Roommate,” I corrected.

“Really?” She pulled away, her eyes shining with happy tears. “You consider me your roommate?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling generous. “And I won’t even make you pay half the rent.”

“Oh, Maddy. Thank you. I’ll be the best roommate ever. I promise.” Lulu bounced up from the couch. “In fact, I’ll start right now. I’ll clean up the house.”

“I’ll help you,” I told her. “And then we’ll go out for ice cream.”

“Cool!”

I watched as Lulu skipped to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag and begin Project Apartment Cleanup. She looked so innocent. Sweet. It was hard to believe she’d been up all night and day doing drugs.

It was all going to be fine, I told myself, quashing the worried gnawing sensation deep in the pit of my stomach. She’d made a mistake. We’d both made mistakes. But now the time for mistakes was over and we could move on as two responsible siblings. Together, we could take on the world and anything life threw at us.

At least, I hoped we could.

Chapter Twelve

FROM
: “Richard Clarkson”

TO
: “Madeline Madison”

SUBJECT
: Too Much Terrance

Madeline,

I spoke with Jodi who said you’re out shooting Murderous Mail (sounds like a great topic by the way!!!) but when you return, we need to discuss the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece.

I saw the finished product and I have to tell you, when I said we wanted the “Terrance Tells All” series to feature Terrance, I didn’t mean to imply that Terrance had to physically be in every shot of the piece. Sure, a couple of shots sprinkled here and there would be appropriate—after all, we do want to feature our talent. But to have Terrance appear in 43 out of 47 shots seems like overkill.

Also, shooting the stand-up of Terrance applying the leaded lipstick to his own lips struck me as a bit on the disturbing side.

Please make the appropriate changes (I do not want to see Terrance more than three times total) and bring the new version for me to review.

Thanks for your hard work! Richard

News Director, News 9

The next day at work, I sat down at my desk and clicked open my e-mail. I hadn’t realized I’d been secretly hoping for a note from Jamie until I realized there wasn’t one. Only spam and more work drama, joy to the world.

I wondered if Jamie had gotten in to work yet. I dreaded seeing him, facing him, working side by side with him, but what else could I do? It seemed too immature to ask Richard for a new photographer. He’d want to know why. And then what would I say? Besides, Jamie was a great photographer and I needed his expertise for my big Mexican shoot.

Tonight, fake-purse-seller Miguel had volunteered to lead us to the Mexican entrance of the drug tunnel. He knew a guard, he said, who could give us an inside look. It had the potential to be the smoking gun-type video we needed—the best video in the story. I couldn’t exactly leave my photographer at home just because he didn’t want to be my boyfriend. I needed to grow up. We were both adults, both professionals. We could do this.

The ride home from Calla Verda had been torturous, though. Of course, Jamie was perfectly polite, cordial. Thanked Jodi for giving him a lift and offered her gas money. But he didn’t say a word to me. And when later in the trip I got up the courage to ask him a direct question, he pretended to be asleep. Even though I knew for a fact he couldn’t be, since no one on earth could possibly sleep through the antics of Jodi’s ultra-hyper dogs.

I turned back to my e-mail, trying to put him out of my mind. The first message was from Terrance, talking about how “utterly fabulous” the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece turned out. The second came from Richard, instructing me to make major changes to the aforementioned utterly fabulous piece—namely by taking out the utterly fabulous Terrance. And the third was from poor, tortured editor Mike, who begged me to tell Richard that it wasn’t his fault that the plethora of Terrance shots had made it into the finished product. (Terrance had evidently verbally abused him for a full hour and a half, until he, as a man facing torture is wont to do, crumbled and gave the male diva everything he wanted and then some.)

I groaned. They called me a producer. Peacemaker would have been a more apt term. Or maybe crisis negotiator. I’d be so happy when “Cosmetics That Kill” finally got on the air and I never had to deal with it again.

I gnawed on the end of my pen as I contemplated how to inform Terrance that we needed to “de-Terrance” the piece before it aired.
Blame it all on Richard
, I thought. Make it seem as if I were as broken up over the whole thing as Terrance must be.
You know how news management is,
I’d say.
They simply don’t have their finger on the pulse of the community.
Or some such bullshit like that. Heaven forbid he found out I completely agreed with Richard’s assessment.

Satisfied with my idea, I opened up a blank e-mail, deciding it would be easier to break the news electronically. But before I could so much as type “Dear Terrance,” Jamie waltzed back into my life.

I stared at my computer monitor, not turning around as he made himself at home in David’s chair. I tried silently Jedi-mind-tricking him to go away, but he was either immune to the ways of the Force or I needed more lessons from Master Yoda.

“Hey, Maddy,” he said in a casual tone. “What’s up?” I told myself to stay calm, even as bile churned in my stomach. How dare he say “Hey, Maddy,” as if nothing happened between us? As if we were just casual coworkers? Seriously, I wanted to whirl around in my chair and punch him in the face. That or kiss him senseless. One or the other. That guy who wrote the song, “Love Stinks,” really was on to something.

“Oh, hi there,” I said instead, attempting to mimic his casualness without much luck. Dammit, I didn’t want him to know how far he’d gotten under my skin. It was too embarrassing. Too pathetic. I picked up my phone, pretending I had to make a call. Maybe he’d leave, go bug some other lovelorn producer. But of course, I was the only lovelorn producer in Jamie’s life. “Wait, Maddy. Before you get on the phone … can we talk for a second?”

Oh, no. Stop right there. I was
so
not going to fall for that one again. I deliberately placed the receiver back into its cradle and turned in my chair to face him. “What?” I demanded, my tone way too venomous for the situation. But really, the nerve of him! To sit down in my cubicle at work and insist on more talking? What, was he going to try to apologize? Say he didn’t mean what he said? Well, I would have none of that.

“Yesterday, I—”

“Listen, Jamie,” I interrupted. I was going to nip this in the bud. Right now. “I’d prefer if we didn’t rehash this weekend’s conversation all over again, no offense. I think you made yourself pretty clear, and I can accept how you feel. I’m sorry I was angry, but I’ve thought a lot about it and I believe it’s all for the best.”

There. That told him. I was firm. In control. He’d see that I wouldn’t stand for his hot and cold bullshit. That I wasn’t pathetic and desperately in love with him.

He frowned. “Maddy—”

“Oh, and if you’re worried about me telling Jen, don’t be,” I continued with a bitter laugh. “You guys can live happily ever after and I’ll never tell. Okay? As far as I’m concerned, it’s water under the bridge. And anyway, it’s not like I ever had any deep feelings for you.” Okay, now the words were spilling from my lips like a cauldron bubbling over. I knew I should turn down the heat and simmer, but I couldn’t stop. “You were just something to pass the time. A minor amusement.” I paused. “I mean, just so you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess it’s good to know where I stand,” he said in a quiet voice. “But if you’ll let me get a word in …”

I held up my hands. “Go right ahead,” I said. “Say what you came to say. I just wanted to let you know where I was coming from. I am not at all upset about your decision to stay with Jen. I hope you have a long and happy marriage with many babies. And live to a long age and … stuff”

“Uh, right. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate those, um, well wishes. Now, as I was saying …” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to me. I frowned down at it, not willing to accept whatever peace offering he’d come up with.

“What is that?” I asked with disdain.

“The property record for the oil refinery,” he said simply.

Oh, dear.

My face burned as I stared down at the paper. This is what he was trying to tell me the whole time? And I had gone off and said … Oh, man! I seriously contemplated crawling under my desk and dying on the spot.

Misunderstandings That Murder: Tonight at 11.

I looked up. “Jamie, I—”

He offered a small smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

I stared back down at the property record. It was so nice of him to have gotten it. For an utter jerk, he sure was thoughtful. Or at the very least, way dedicated to his job.

I, on the other hand, was a major bitch. And a sucky producer to top it off.

“I was going to give it to you in the car yesterday,” he informed me. “But I knew you were keeping the drug tunnel story a secret. Wasn’t sure if Jodi was in on it or not.”

“Thank you for getting this,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I wanted to apologize for my tirade, but wasn’t sure how. “I mean, it was really, really great of you. It would have sucked to have to go all the way back, and, well …”